


Salt in an Open Wound

by ssorrell



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, Cardassians, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Gen, Occupation of Bajor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2018-11-09 03:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11095596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssorrell/pseuds/ssorrell
Summary: After being charged with a crime he didn't commit, Kelas Parmak is sent to waste away in a Bajoran prison camp at the height of the Occupation with his interrogator's eyes still burning in his brain.As the years pass and Parmak threatens to succumb to his grief, he and his would-be enemies are left to ponder the same aching, ever-present question on opposite sides of a burgeoning conflict: who are they, in the eyes of their people? And will they ever heal from what Cardassia has done to them?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShevatheGun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShevatheGun/gifts).



_This is backward,_ Garak thought.  

He read over the List of Objectives that Pythas assigned to him, disappointed in himself for needing the repetition.  He remembered the details - there was no fault there - but he did not believe the goal was clear.  With a pointed sigh at the last line, he turned over the vial Pythas attached for him.   

It was for his benefit, of course.  Pythas understood his limitations; several times at the Institute, he’d watched Garak shake and scream and insist the walls were crushing him.  Often, he was equally resistant to Pythas’s arms, when early attempts were made at consolation.  Pythas outgrew the habit but Garak remained caught in the fear. 

_It’s still backward._

Giving an interrogator drugs to boost his confidence, instead of forcing them on the Objective to make him pliant?

Garak took the injection, switched off the screen, and proceeded into the next room.  It was dark there, so dark Garak could not discern the distance of his assigned table from any of the walls.  He shook his head and waited for the momentary lag of the medication, doing everything in his power to resist reaching out to catalogue each wall’s location, inevitably shivering when he decided they were too close.

He did not sit down at the table.  Instead, he gripped tight to the back of the metal chair and glared down at his Objective.

“You are Doctor Kelas Parmak…?” he led.

“I am.”

Parmak met his eyes, and Garak immediately revised his strategy, abandoning all the details Pythas painstakingly compiled for him.  Pythas knew nothing; he never met this man.

 _Man_ , Garak struggled with the thought.   _This is a man who is too comfortable with being questioned._

Garak would not say another word.

***

Parmak wished it _had_ been questions.  He could have evaded questions, the same as he’d been doing for decades.  The path to his scientific career was a minefield of thousands of questions, but somehow none of them were more threatening than his interrogator’s eyes.

He expected a certain degree of medical coercion much sooner in the exercise, but no - he’d made his false admission without interference.  It was not until after he was finished speaking and the interrogator stood up, satisfied, and called ‘take him’ to the camera in the corner of the room.

Parmak did not offer any argument to the intervening operative, who took his arm and shoved a compound hypospray against it.  As far as he remembered, he continued wailing ‘his eyes, his eyes’ until he was unconscious.  And when he awoke again, it continued.

He could still see them, burning blue in the darkness.  But he was not in the cell anymore, no.  He awoke with his head in a bag and cuffs around his wrists, being tugged along by pressure from both of these points.  Someone’s hand had a tight hold on his hair, through the burlap, and pulled him forward.

The next word he heard was Bajoran, and he only understood it from his constant exposure to propaganda.  It had been inescapable, in Tain’s house.

“ **Halt** ,” the voice said.

Parmak was struck at the ankles, causing him to fall to his knees in the dirt.  Throughout this, the hand did not let go of his hair.

He heard other Bajoran words, from quiet and intermingling voices, making it impossible for him to even attempt understanding.

“ **You** ,” the voice continued, and Parmak heard approaching footsteps.

The bag was torn off, but the hand returned to his hair.

“Some doctor,” the voice mocked, this time in Cardassian.

Parmak turned and blinked hard against the unmistakable Bajoran sun, determined to face his aggressor.  It was not the interrogator, and it was not the operative who relieved him.  It was a man in a Gul’s uniform, dusted with grains of sand and residual ore powder.

“ **You, jeskla,** ” the Gul admonished, “ **I have a job for you, come here** _._ ”

He pulled Parmak’s hair up to its fullest possible height, so it met the Gul’s eye-level while Parmak knelt and tipped his head down against the pain.

Parmak only understood a few of the words, the ones he was able to glean from homeworld campaigns.

“ **...disgrace.  Remove… end, throat…** ”

 _Why did they bring me all this way to die?_ Parmak thought.   _No, it couldn’t be that._

“ **...make example of…** ” the voice continued. 

_Oh, of course._

He saw the Bajoran’s shadow nodding in acceptance, and had to imagine the resistance on the figure’s face.  The Bajoran was provided a set of shears, and hacked Parmak’s hair off with a series of misaligned cuts.  It was uneven in the end, but not a single strand fell below his shoulders.

“Hmm,” the Gul sighed, and began kicking dirt over the fallen strands of hair.  “That’s useless now, isn’t it?  All that work, and it could’ve made a nice headpiece, but that’s what I get for expecting a Bajoran to do anything correctly.   **Sit**.”

The Bajoran sat and offered an apologetic, wide-eyed look at Parmak.  He struggled to think of what he should say in return.

With the hair sufficiently buried, the Gul shoved Parmak down and turned to leave.

“You never were a doctor, do you understand?  You have always been scum.  And you’re home, now, aren’t you?”

Parmak’s eyelashes brushed the sand as he blinked.  He did not want to breathe, but the compulsion overcame him.  As the Gul retired, he steadied himself and coughed up sand.

The Bajoran who had cut his hair slid hesitantly forward and spoke in broken Cardassian.

“A doctor, home?” she asked quietly.

“A doctor,” Parmak repeated, tapping two fingers against his wrist both to indicate himself and to confirm his profession.

The Bajoran took hold of his wrist.

“Scum?” she echoed.

Parmak was still unsure of how to reply, and felt alternating waves of nausea and thirst drifting through his stomach.  He could not tell exactly what the operatives had given him, but they _had_ given him too much of it.  This was an understandable mistake; he was, as his lab coat could usually conceal, already underweight.

He found he was rocking back and forth, when the Bajoran tried to hold him steady and reached hesitantly forward to cull the dirt from his quivering lips.  

All he could confidently say was **‘affirmative**.’

The Bajoran laughed in a dry and defeated kind of way; she was otherwise accustomed to hearing this word and recoiling, but was thankful the Cardassians used formal commands and had yet to master casual language.  They declared it pointless, past an acceptable baseline of understanding.  

This one was different, not only in his presence here, but in the way he tried to nod along and speak through tears and the deep, wrenching coughs he was not yet used to.  The air here was not his own, and the dust did not soothe him.  Neither did the lingering medication.  

“ **Camp Batal** ,” she offered.

Parmak was not surprised to understand.

***

Garak did not know, at the time, where the man ended up.  Sometimes the name _Kelas Parmak_ crossed his mind, after his impressions of medicine were sufficiently blurred by the Federation.  Early on, he introduced himself to Doctor Julian Bashir, a man who was well known for his skill as a physician.  

 _This is backward_ , Garak thought, as he often did.

And then, foolishly, Garak became more and more intrigued by his new companion.  He began to understand that humans - and indeed, most of the Federation species - did not regard science in the same way Cardassians did.  He expected to find deeply-buried disrespect, or some charade too impressive for the Federation’s talents, but he uncovered nothing.  

Well, nothing except a man who was a talented and respected scientist.  One who was happy to talk to him and make him feel almost at home.

***

Parmak awoke to the Bajoran woman rubbing his back.  He assumed the overdose caused him to lose consciousness again, and was surprised to find he’d been dragged inside the shady shelter of a tent.  There was still sand in his eyes.

He sat up, then coughed and wished there was some mental equivalent.  His thoughts were slow and unsteady, and he wanted to pause them.  

“Assigned morning shift,” the woman said to him, tapping his wrist as he had done earlier.  

He credited her as an efficient learner, and thought her talents were being wasted here.  His first thought was along the lines of seeking reassignment for her, like he had any power to do so.  The Gul’s words had some merit, Parmak reluctantly realized; he needed to stop seeing himself as inherently better than those he was now serving alongside, or how would he survive this?

She set a lock of his hair in his hand and pressed it shut.

He did not know her term for ‘friend,’ and when he tried his, she shook her head.  

“ **Valued worker** ,” he said, ashamed of his education.

She walked away from him, and he remained alone until the routine arrival of the Gul for inspections.

“I hear you’ve made a friend,” the Gul admonished.  His tone never varied.

“Where do I report in the morning,” Parmak said flatly.

“That depends.  Are you well enough to mine, or shall I ship you off to the processing center?”

“I am having heart palpitations,” Parmak was reluctant to give anything resembling a formal diagnosis, but he was also not ready to die at the hand of some delusional overseer underneath a foreign sun.  

“Understandable.  Perhaps I can arrange an additional day of rest for you, but I will require something from you in return.”

Parmak remained quiet, desperately finishing his entire daily water provision .

“Some of my workers are unwell.  They’ve done it to themselves on purpose - refusing to eat, sabotaging their own water supply with ore-dust.  They think some benefit awaits them if they work inefficiently.”

“You said I was not a doctor anymore.”

“I said you were _never_ a doctor, and I’ve no intention of letting you become one here.”

Parmak gripped tight to his lock of hair, determined to keep it hidden.  It was all he had, as he prepared to resign what remained of his dignity.

“What is it you want me to do?” he spoke through his teeth.

“Well, don’t let them injure themselves, obviously.  It shouldn’t require much talent to talk them out of being self-destructive, but the job is below me.  You see, I don’t call myself a friend of any Bajoran.”

“Understandable,” Parmak muttered back.

“I can make your time here much more comfortable; it only takes a little cooperation.  My assigned contact from the Order tells me you should be good at that.”

The conversation was doing nothing to relieve the sick feeling brewing in Parmak’s stomach.  He wanted to forget the preceding days, but even when he closed his eyes, he saw those of his interrogator.  The guilt was inescapable.

He swallowed hard, ensuring he could speak calmly.  

“I don’t speak their language,” Parmak reasoned.  “I’ll need a translator.”

The Gul sighed and studied his hand, blowing dirt from his nails.

“You are in no position to make demands of me, **traitor**.”

Translation devices were not posted anywhere on mining camp properties, under the pretense of protecting their expensive equipment from signal interference, as well as keeping their cheap laborers from developing cohesive escape plans.  Their presence may have benefited the Cardassian overseers earlier in the process - allowing them to understand the casual conversations that sometimes began between cells at night - but there was no failsafe to stop the Bajorans from hearing and understanding the private discussions of the Cardassians, too.  And so they instituted a formal system of commands in the local language, and the Bajorans remained too scared to speak freely amongst themselves, as they did not fully understand the threats made against them.

On secure stations, however, where the intentions were reversed for the sake of maintaining an acceptable public image...

“The nearest translator to you is at the processing center on Terok Nor,” the Gul concluded, “and you will not live to step foot there, with words like that.   **You must work harder, for the benefit of your people.”**

Parmak found he could not even keep down his water ration, and blamed the words.  The Gul provided a shovel to him and stepped out of reach.

He was too weak to lift it repeatedly, so he dropped it in the dirt and rolled as far away as he could on the strength of a single breath.  He needed to land with his head up, afraid of inhaling any more dirt.  How was he supposed to call for help if he could not breathe?

Or, if he did not know the names of anyone willing to help him?

“ **Bajoran workers** ,” he begged, voice quiet and raspy.

“ **Good** ,” replied the Gul. “You may prove yourself useful yet.”

For the rest of the day, Parmak remained still, occasionally gagging on the flecks of bitter water that remained in his throat.  He shifted to lay on his side, and watched waves of heat radiate up from the ground, but he still felt the need to shiver.

The Bajoran woman returned to him after her shift concluded, carefully balancing two open tins of food in one hand while reaching out to him with the other.  She sat beside him and insisted on feeding him, and he resigned himself to swallowing each bite.  He did not know how to argue, and was hopeful the nutrients would replenish him instead of revulse him.  Despite not providing any research or clinical testing for these meals himself, they were well known on Cardassia, manufactured specifically to strengthen laborers after unending days of exhausting work.

He was beginning to hate absolutely everything he knew about the Occupation.  Not because it was now directly responsible for his suffering, but because it took him until this point to recognize it as suffering at all.  It was never a topic he discussed himself, but one he was required to listen to at his workplace.  One he was required to offer steadfast support of.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, even if the woman would not understand him.  That was the thing about change; it could not be accomplished passively.

***

Garak _knew_ he was making himself too valuable.  He also knew he should stop, but he couldn’t help it; he enjoyed the attention and the chance to indulge any of his abandoned talents.  They could not _all_ be reassigned to the cover of tailoring, no matter how hard he tried.

But, the more weight his name carried on the station, the more likely it was to fall into use elsewhere; he had no intention of letting his name leave the station without the rest of him.

“It’s a hobby of mine,” he returned his eyes to his screen, giving an unconvincing flourish of his hand in apology.

“You say that about all sorts of things,” Bashir replied.

“Enlighten me, Doctor - is it customary for humans to devote their lives to only a single hobby?”

“Well, no.  But you’ve--”

“I would appreciate the chance to finish this passage, please.  I cannot discuss it with you if I have not read it.”

“I, er-- what passage?  You said you’d finished _For Your Eyes Only_ the day after I sent it to you.”

“Charming title,” Garak remarked.  

Bashir’s eyes flicked over the imaginary line that separated their respective halves of the table.  It felt more like a prestigious event when they observed these rules and respected these boundaries.  With this sudden invasion, it was as if Bashir was serving the proverbial ball out of turn.

“That text is in Bajoran,” Bashir observed.

Garak conducted the majority of his research within the parameters of the Bajoran archives.  They were easy to access from the station, never required any of his increasingly outdated passwords or increasingly tenuous ties to home.  Best of all, the Bajoran records contained more complete information on his fellow operatives than anything written on Cardassia.  Those were intentionally vague and coded, and Garak was searching too desperately for a friend to waste his time on such trivialities.  

Garak sighed and set the device down beside his plate.  Bashir’s was empty already; of course he was bored.

“A hobby of mine,” Garak repeated.  “Surely you were taught other languages, Doctor.  That must fit very well into the Federation’s idealistic expectations of cultural exchange.”

Compliments generally distracted Bashir, but not today.  Today, he was satisfied after a good meal, and looking forward to filling the hour before his shift with literary comparison.  Nothing got past him when he was looking for faults, usually a trait he suffered from at his own hand.

Garak braced for the discomfort he was about to create.  He chased Bashir’s eyes around until he caught them.

“I am _working_ , Doctor.  It would be best for you to trust me, and to leave it at that.”

***

As the Gul predicted, it was not difficult for Parmak to stop his new workmates from poisoning themselves.  While some of them truly did prefer the idea of death to that of continued labor, most were hoping the stunt would get the attention of their overseers.

“ **Negative** ,” Parmak corrected them, “ **No concern.”**

“ **True and obvious** ,” his companion shrugged.

Originally, he intended to learn her name.  It would require only a simple exchange, tapping himself, speaking, and waiting for her to mirror the motions.  But Parmak stopped seeking this opportunity when he learned what danger it posed to her.

“I could make you more comfortable here,” the Gul reiterated, nodding toward the woman while she worked.

Parmak was too weak to hit him.  And the more he thought about it, the faster the possible satisfaction shrank away.

With every message he successfully conveyed to the Bajorans, the Gul provided him with expanding responsibilities.  When Parmak refused and tried to undervalue his accomplishments, the Gul laughed in his face, sharp and satisfied.

“Then I will give you the week off,” he said.  “I will provide you with whatever it takes for them to resent you.”

“I won’t take it,” Parmak accepted the trap.  “I will work alongside them.”

“You will, and you will be sure to tell them how far behind we are for the quarter.  You’re going to accept trust from us in equal measure, or from no one at all.  Do you understand?  You play an important role here, even if you are **dirt**.  We must dig our ore from somewhere.”

Parmak’s mind was rarely free of his interrogation cell, but this time the parallel was stronger than usual.  He had placed himself in an identical situation - doing his job, trying to be friendly, and ultimately breaking down and failing as everyone around him had jeeringly foretold.  

There was one outcome here, and there had been one outcome in the cell.  It would end in confession.  Despite his innocence, the outcome remained the same.  Where the Obsidian Order was involved, interrogators replaced archons and embarrassment replaced execution.

The thought of assassinating his employer had not occurred to him until the first operative suggested it.  Then, too late, he considered its merits and confessed as if it had been his primary objective since accepting the position.  He could say nothing to expose Tain’s weaknesses, nothing to make him appear less than perfect.  It was ridiculous; Parmak _knew_ Tain was no longer actively in charge of the Order, so why was his reputation so important?  Clearly it wasn’t, if he was willing to take on a male doctor in the first place.

Parmak shook his head.   _No, never a doctor._

“I do not have a choice in this,” he recited.

“I have never seen dirt move,” replied the Gul curtly.

Parmak took the first assignments and forced himself to swallow the guilt.  He learned how to apologize before asking, in his gentlest tone, if the Bajorans could work any more efficiently.  More importantly, he learned how to ask if they trusted them.  The Gul eagerly gauged these responses until Parmak - matching his pathetic expectation - refused to continue when the answers changed to a unanimous ‘no.’

It had taken nearly a year.

Only the original Bajoran woman returned regularly to Parmak’s side, saying ‘sorry’ to him in both languages and assuring the others he had no intention of hurting them.  But he’d had no intention of hurting Tain, either, until he was met with the fleeting suggestion, and suddenly all the supposed reasons made sense.

Parmak threw down his assigned shovel.  He did not mean for the woman to copy him, but she did, throwing hers in the direction of the Gul.  

He glanced up from his seat in the shade.  Parmak immediately turned to avoid his eyes - they were blue, after all - but this action only reaffirmed his guilt.  The Gul stood and gave a disappointed sigh.

“ **I have no desire to threaten you,** ” he said amiably, “ **but you still have an hour on this work-cycle.** ”

Parmak knelt to retrieve the shovel, hoping his companion would copy him again.  But she remained still, staring forward, daring the Gul to approach.

She spoke quickly and firmly, in words beyond Parmak’s comprehension.  

“ **He will not harm us, no matter what you offer him.  He doesn’t submit to bribes; that’s why he was sentenced here, it must be.  All of you can go around bribing and betraying each other, but he’s above that and I will not work for another minute until you leave him alone.”**

The Gul crossed his arms and laughed.  Some of the words were beyond his assigned understanding, too, but he refused to give any evidence of this.

“ **Bribes?  As I’m feeling generous today, maybe you won’t** **_need_ ** **to work another minute, woman.** ”

Then he took several heavy steps toward her.  As he closed the gap, Parmak shook, but the Bajoran did not redirect her glare.  Others on the team tilted their heads to watch, afraid of removing their attention too much from their work.

“ **Will you retrieve that**?” the Gul made his final offer, pointing condescendingly toward the shovel.

“ **No, I will not**.”

He gave the same disappointed sigh and seized the woman’s wrists.  Parmak’s violent, tormented shaking offered a momentary distraction, but not enough to stop the Gul from heaving the woman down onto the sand, in the direction of his supervisory tent.

When she tried to regain her balance, the Gul clapped his hand in the middle of her back and shoved her down again.  

Parmak did not want to watch this.  When he shut his eyes, he remembered there was a deeper choice available to him.  Not only did he not need to watch, but it did not need to happen.  He was here to make changes.  To help people, even at his detriment.  

He remembered these words from the Cardassian Physician’s Affirmation.  

 _His_ Affirmation.

“Get away from her!” he demanded.

“ **What was that, Bajoran Worker**?”

The Gul’s hands were at the base of her neck, holding her down, threatening to cut off her breathing.

“ **You… off her.** ”

“ **You’re getting better** ,” the Gul said, without relenting.

“ **Leave her.  I am ordering you to leave her**.”

The Gul compromised by removing one hand, and turning enough to see Parmak standing over his shoulder.  He gave a sickening grin, tongue flicking momentarily between his teeth.  

“ **You... are ordering me**?”

“ **I am**.  Under _no_ circumstance will you touch her, do you hear me?”

The Gul released his grip and rushed to Parmak instead, shouting for the rest of the crew to return to their work.  He could not overpower all of them, if they were united.  Parmak knew this, but this was not his motivation.

Parmak shuddered when the Gul extended his hand to him, brushing the lowest strands of his hair, which splayed unevenly over his shoulder and ached to return to their former length.

“You were suffering under some delusion that you were a Scientist,” the Gul ridiculed.

“Yes, that I was a _Doctor_ ,” Parmak tried to speak slowly and calmly, to take up as much time as possible.  He hoped he had given his friend a chance to stand and cover herself and return to her place in the line - safely behind him - but he could not afford to look for her now.

“Do you know how many years it’s been,” the Gul tugged harder at Parmak’s hair, “since I’ve seen a Cardassian woman?”

His hand moved down from Parmak’s shoulder, beneath the loose collar of his tattered tunic.

“What are you doing?  Get off of me.   **Off**.”

“A _distinct_ lapse in taste, on my part,” the Gul admitted, removing his fingers one by one. “You almost had me fooled, standing there and sobbing like you are.   **You**?”

He turned to find the woman, approaching and looking very much like she could kill him.  She regretted not reaching for her shovel earlier, for this reason alone.

“ **You will return him to his place**.”

The Gul drew his set of shears from the pack he carried on his shoulder.  He placed these in the woman’s hand, and kept his clasped tightly over hers.  

“ **The same as last time** ,” he instructed, but she did not comply.

“ **I will not do it.  This is all the doctor has, leave it to him**.”

While she could not overpower his hand nor break from his grip, when she focused all of her strength and rage, she found she could keep him from advancing the blades toward Parmak’s head.  Their hands remained locked in this pattern, wrists throbbing against the pressure, while Parmak watched in shock.   _Doctor_.  After all this time, she believed him, to the point of defending him.   _Backward_.

The Gul would not admit to giving up.  He threw back the woman’s hand and stepped away, calling to his subordinates for support.

“Take them,” his tone was, for a moment, world-shatteringly familiar.  “Bajoran scum, you should know by now it’s best to comply; _we_ are doing what’s best for _you_.”

A Glinn arrived, all too eager to take Parmak’s arm.  The woman walked along beside him without coercion.  


	2. Chapter 2

Enthusiasm was one of the young Glinn’s many faults, one which Parmak became increasingly indebted to with each step they took away from the Gul.

Huddled together, they arrived at the Glinn’s supervisory tent.  The woman sat against the wall of it, and watched as the workers approached, eyes wide with curiosity. 

“Glinn Ramet,” he offered, loosening his grip on Parmak’s forearm.  Another mistake, but not one Parmak would mention.

His voice was not condescending as the Gul’s always was; it was soft and almost apologetic, like he’d inconvenienced Parmak by rescuing him.  

“Kelas,” he said back.

Ramet existed in the uncomfortable place at the lowest end of the ranking system.  He commanded a tiny group of self-proclaimed Skilled Laborers in an attempt to better his reputation, but Parmak had never heard his name before and did not expect to hear it favorably again.  Ramet’s group worked at the back of the property line, so far from Parmak’s former cave he had to squint to catch the glow of the Gul’s armor.  Parmak could not see his eyes in the daylight.  For this, he was thankful.  

There were five other laborers in Parmak’s new assignment, each of which Ramet introduced by name.  Parmak expected the Occupation would have been more mutually acceptable if all the officers were as charming and apologetic as Ramet seemed to be.  He collected and reassigned the camp’s rejected workers, offering them the chance to make - in his words - ‘more meaningful contributions.’  Parmak expected he was only assigned to this post because he was related to someone who both owed his parents a favor _and_ never wanted to deal with him directly.

Parmak slowly shook hands with his new workmates, and the woman stood and joined him, talking to each of them in Bajoran.  

The final charge was a pale woman who sneezed several times into her arm, rather than offering her hand.  Ramet nodded to acknowledge her, and introduced her as ‘Nadyn.’

“Beya,” Parmak’s original companion offered.  She reached out and lightly squeezed Nadyn’s shoulder.

Parmak wondered if he should copy her.  He found himself looking at Ramet, who was still nodding, but slower.

“ **Are you well**?” Parmak asked, merely tapping her arm.

“ **I must be… are you**?”

“ **Yes, I believe so** ,” Parmak said.

Ramet ceased nodding, satisfied with his little team’s compulsory interaction.  

“You are the translator, Kelas, aren’t you?” Ramet asked quietly.

Parmak knew he needed to choose the best angle to pursue - incompetent or indispensable - but the use of his proper name disarmed him.  He had not heard it in more than a year, and the last lips to abuse it were those of his interrogator, dragging it down with the insult of his title.

This time, he heard a title he had not worked all his life for.  A title intended to bring suffering to him, rather than healing to others.  

Parmak was not very good at playing multiple perceptions at once.  He knew how to avoid questions, of course, but he preferred to be truthful whenever possible.

“I speak a little,” he hesitantly replied.

Beya, meanwhile, prepared to offer her customary promises that Parmak was not going to hurt anyone in the group, that he was their equal, that he would defy his orders even if… and then she realized none of the Bajorans had recoiled.  They stood and watched patiently as their supervisor made arrangements.

“We are receiving a new magnetic separator from Terok Nor,” Ramet explained.  “It will need to be retrofitted to match the rest of our equipment.  Nadyn has engineering experience; she will convey the intricate details to you, and you will complete the work to acceptable specifications in time for our audit.”

“Why can’t she--?”

“She _cannot_ complete the work.”

At the sound of her name, Nadyn turned and focused on them.  Parmak did not know where to begin - her eyes were glossy and red at the edges, her hair was thin and limp, and her arms looked permanently crossed over her chest.  When she tried moving them, the bones creaked enough for even a Cardassian to hear.  

“I… studied medicine,” Parmak said.  “Is there anything wrong with her?”

Parmak would freely admit to being unqualified to practice effectively on Bajorans, but he needed to start somewhere.  He could make a control group of the rest of his crew, and from this, could teach himself to understand body temperature, skin elasticity, reflexes.  So many illnesses would become identifiable after reaching this point… he imagined all the progress to be made here, ashamed it was a necessary goal to strive for.  He nodded pointedly at Ramet, ready to exploit his weakness.

“No,” the Glinn decided, “there would be something wrong with _me_ , if I entrusted such a task _solely_ to a Bajoran.  At least in the eyes of a State Auditor, I mean.”

Parmak drew his head back; he would need to try again later.  Ramet would owe him a favor, like it or not.

“If you need any further persuasion,” Ramet continued, as Parmak skeptically considered his good fortune, “I can have something sent for you on the next transport ship.  Food?  Stories?  Clothing?  The new tailor there is Cardassian… if you feel you are missing home, perhaps I could order--”

Parmak was thinking too much of home as it was; he did not need anyone’s misplaced ‘persuasion.’

“Nothing, thank you,” he said, but Ramet insisted.

***

Garak received the order in plenty of time.  He could have made three or four coats in the time before the supply ship left for Batal.  The departure schedule was posted on every screen he was able to access; it was all he saw for weeks.

Mostly, he glared at it.  And he memorized it.  And then he _hated_ it.

Making repairs to armor - under strict orders and specifications - was in no way fulfilling, but it was predictable.  This was not.

 _Something approachable_ , the order said, _something like Home_.

“Home?” Garak spat at his screen.

This was the worst part of his punishment, he was sure.  A vague and overly generous commission, already paid in full, and _too much time_.

He stared at the bolts of fabric until the final day forced him into action.  

Home?

The collar was cut three times until it was too wide to be of much use.  The side panels did not stretch the way Garak wanted them to.  The stripes did not align where they met at the seam, even though the point was hidden from view.  

It wasn’t right at all.  But maybe it was as close to home as he could get, anymore.  He hated everything about it.

He put an empty box on the transport ship and typed up a lengthy apology for the recipient, which he never intended to send.  But it too was imperfect, and he backspaced over every symbol, one at a time.

***

Glinn Ramet allowed his crew to sleep in the shelter of his supervisory tent, and even left the door to his adjoining quarters unlocked most nights.  He was an insistent sort of leader, whose followers lived in fear of the expanding opportunities he offered.  

All of them were taken in after giving displays of insubordination similar to Parmak and Beya’s.  When he came to retrieve them, how were they to know he was only - at Parmak’s estimate - trying too hard to make a name for himself?  They assumed he offered a fitting and final punishment, instead.

Beya and Parmak remained outside on the first night, unaccustomed to the casual atmosphere.  The rest of the crew sat together inside the tent, in silence.  Originally, Beya wanted to reassure them and inquire about their family names, as was customary in case of escape or injury, but she felt threatened by their fear.  Any words at all would make them guilty; that was the nature of Cardassian jurisdiction.

Parmak understood this, and did not ask.  Instead he paced until the sand was cool enough to sit down in.  

“Beya,” Parmak said, forcing himself to laugh. “ **It is good to, to introduce you, now.**   **I am** Kelas.”

“I know,” she replied.  “ **I appreciate your protection.** ”

“Hmmm,” he sighed, after a moment of thought.

He dug his prized possession, the single lock of his hair, out from the safety of his sleeve.  He kept it tight against his shoulder, beneath the fabric, in the place it had formerly grown, because he wanted to feel it and imagine it was there naturally.  It had taken him years to nurture it to that length.  

Parmak was afraid to consider years of progress with Beya.

She watched him as he wove the lock between his fingers, pulling it taut over his knuckles like they were reeds on a loom.  There were little notches there, little raised patches of scaling, and the hair caught them.

“ **Is she, Nadyn, well**?” he asked, staring downward.

Beya sighed and shook her head.

“ **I don’t know** , you’re the doctor.”

“What do they… **sorry.  What is done with the sick here?  Where are they moved**?”

She pondered this.  Several times, she had witnessed workers collapsing.  She knew, also, about the hunger strikes and contaminated water supplies.  But, as hard as she thought, she could not recall seeing where these people went, in the end.

“ **Maybe** Glinn Ramet **takes them all in**.   **Otherwise, they would be killed and he would have no one to command** , hmm?   **We are the best he can do**.”

“ **Maybe** ,” Parmak repeated, while his comprehension caught up. “ **But you never introduced these.  This crew**?”

“ **You are getting better** ,” she grinned.  “ **And that’s true**.”

As far as Parmak was concerned, it did not add up properly.  Of course, he assumed some of the weaker workers would have died, even if they were turned over to Ramet’s care.  But for only five to remain?

Well, seven now.

“ **I will not be able to work the separator** ,” Parmak decided, and then he muttered to himself.  “I don’t have the time or resources to learn any more of the language, let alone the process itself.  And it’ll be audited right after… _that_ ’s where everyone goes, they go to Court." 

Beya knew the final word, and chuckled sarcastically at it.

“Court **is this place** ,” she emphasized, pointing at the sand.

“Mmm,” said Parmak.

One of their crewmates in the tent stood up with exclusive intent of shushing him.  Beya rolled her eyes, but ultimately apologized on his behalf.

Parmak tucked his lock of hair back into place, and went to bed.

***

There were some days Parmak could not decide which part of the camp was worse.  

Glinn Ramet, as it turned out, had terrible luck obtaining enough rations for all of them and Parmak - nearly two weeks into refusing charity portions from Beya - found himself almost begging for the Gul’s predatory touch, if it meant he could eat.  But the thought cleared quickly, within the first few bites of his compulsory vitamin supplement, and he was glad to see it go.  

Without food to accompany them, Parmak found the vitamins overwhelming.  From this, he learned he had different dietary needs than the Bajorans that the supplements were created for.  He spent most of his time nauseous, seeing spots in his peripheral vision, and wishing he had taken up Ramet’s offer of food from Terok Nor.

Instead, he refused everything.  Receiving an empty box, then, felt appropriate.

Empty, except for a thin slip of metal, on which someone had neatly handwritten, in Cardassian calligraphy, ‘my apologies.’

 _You don’t need to apologize to me_ , Parmak thought, when Ramet delivered the box to him.  

He resolved to keep his lock of hair inside it, along with the message, and his shrinking hopes of getting out alive.  They fit nicely.

Unfortunately, the arrival of Parmak’s curious gift also marked the arrival of the mining equipment.  

Nadyn, who had spent all of the intermediary time in the shade, followed slowly to the installation site.  By this point, Parmak could not tell if the shade was healing her or making her condition worse.  She was still much paler than her companions, but this was as deep as his diagnosis ran.  He was afraid of touching her, even _asking_ to touch her.  He was forced to watch her hair fall out on its own, revealing a scalp more red than her hair had been in years.

Ramet set down a case of tools, passing them over to Parmak after engaging their various safeties and password-protections.  Nadyn and Beya waited on either side of him.

“Gul Dukat will be performing the audit in eighteen work cycles,” Ramet said, like the name alone was sufficient motivation.   

Parmak had never heard of him, either, and tossed his head back in time to watch Ramet depart.

“I’ll do the best I can,” he said to Ramet’s dissipating shadow.

“ **Will you direct us**?” Beya extended her hand, swirling it between Nadyn and the stack of tools.

“ **Can you speak at all** ,” Parmak muttered.

Nadyn’s reddened eyes flicked fiercely in his direction, and his response of “ **sorry** ” was automatic.

They spent the day together in this uncomfortable arrangement, kneeling in the hot sand, passing scanners and wrenches back and forth, doing their best to communicate.  Nadyn did a lot of pointing, crawling beneath the open panel of the new machine and gesturing at wires and plates.  Parmak nodded along and narrated to himself, with Beya laughing intermittently, every time she knew the other two were very far from understanding each other.

Nadyn pulled at two wires and made a motion for Parmak to clip them, then fuse them together.  He was reluctant.

“So you used to be some kind of engineer,” he said, as she shoved the soldering gun into his hand “ **Yes, I know, yes, I heard**.  You wave faster when I’ve done something wrong?  Or slower?  But you used to be some kind of an engineer, Ramet said, yet you can’t even cut the wires yourself?   **Now, the old model.  Where, connect**?”

Her hands slowed and hovered over the connection he had made.

“ **There** ,” Beya interpreted, which was no help at all.

“It’s very likely I’ll collapse if I have to lift anything this high,” he said.  

The wires were above his head, easy to reach with a torch, but more imposing if he needed to move pipes or heavy panels.  There was always some likelihood he would collapse anyway, from malnutrition.

Together, he and Beya were able to haul the necessary pipe over.  Nadyn watched them, panting at the sight.

“Would Ramet lift it, if I called for him?”

“ **What**?”

“ **Sorry** , never mind.   **Leave it here**.”

They dropped it, more or less in unison, and Parmak slid down to sit against it.  The metal was even hotter than the sand, though, so he quickly withdrew.  He could not imagine how uncomfortable the Bajorans must have been, in a place even he found intolerable.  The temperature alone was not outside of his comfort, but there was no moisture to soften it, and there was no way to get the sand out of his eyes and the grooves in his skin.   

“ **You need help to lift it**?” Nadyn asked, when Parmak’s eyes were shut and he was wiping sweat from the place where it pooled in the ridge beneath his eyes.  

“ **Yes, not from you**.”

“ **Thank you** ,” she said.  

Parmak did not expect this, nor did he expect her to sit down beside him.  When she found his skin soothing and cool, she ducked against his arm, into the small sliver of shade his body provided.  Beya watched and understood, and stood in front of them, her back to the sun, to expand the space.

“I would not force you to do anything that might harm you,” Parmak explained, mostly to himself.  “I want to learn what’s wrong with you so I can help you, but I can’t understand enough for that, yet.  Maybe never, who knows.”

“ **Heal** ,” Beya offered.  This was her default translation, when Parmak’s voice was gentle like this, and she had not been wrong yet.  

Nadyn’s face was flushed when she glanced up again.

“ **I want them to take me back to the processing center** ,” she insisted, “ **but it’s too soon, they won’t do it**.”

“ **Too soon**?” Parmak sought confirmation.

Nadyn sneezed, Beya nodded solemnly, and Parmak still did not understand.


	3. Chapter 3

The women spoke quickly and talked over each other, which Parmak found incomprehensible.  All he caught was the repetition of ‘ **eighteen work cycles** ’ and Nadyn’s name.  He spent the entire time sitting between them, feeling their words far more than he understood them.

“ **Slower**?” he pleaded, until Beya eventually turned to look at him.  

She narrowed her eyes and focused on finding a common metaphorical ground.

“Re--” she struggled with the recollection, “Regova egg.”

Nadyn sniffled and Beya held her hand up, like this was the indisputable proof Parmak requested.  

“Egg,” Parmak repeated, on the verge of making the connection.

Beya offered the Bajoran word in its place, and leaned down to guide Parmak’s hand toward Nadyn’s abdomen.  At first, he shook and resisted.  To his knowledge, Bajorans did _not_ hatch from eggs.

“Oh,” he said, and Beya completed the touch in his place. “It’s… it’s Cardassian?”

Nadyn nodded and waved her hands, both at once.

Parmak felt guilty and sick, because he did not know how to ask about the circumstances.  

She slowed her hands.  He watched and talked to himself.

“Too soon, and you want to go to the processing site, hmm?  What, they won’t take you if they know you’re pregnant, or do they want you to work at long as possible?  They,” he echoed, longing to differentiate himself from the group, “they probably have you work until you collapse; I wouldn’t be surprised.  But look at you _now_ , Nadyn.  I wouldn’t expect you to live through the rest of the pregnancy - assuming you want to continue it - let alone the delivery.   _Look_ at you.”

Beya nodded along somberly.  

He curled his fingers together, rather than touch her fragile hair or discolored skin.  Their own bodies were the only things each of them had control of, anymore, and even that right was receding.  He did not want to test its limits. 

“ **You’ll help**?” Nadyn asked, just beginning to trust him.

Where Ramet gave overbearing invitations, Parmak showed gentle restraint.  It was clear which Nadyn preferred.

“ **I want to more than anything** ,” he said.

He considered his options, all beyond his ability to express.  And to execute, without practice or preparation.  

What would he do - induce labor without understanding its complexities?  Make Nadyn visibly unwell enough to be taken away to a more suitable professional?  That was more along the right line, he thought.

It occurred to him, then, the reason Tain employed him.  Tain was not concerned with his own reputation, and he may not have even seen Parmak as the most qualified for the position.  Parmak worked toward his licensure under a false name, and disguised himself to match it.

What Tain saw in Parmak was a competent liar.  What Parmak saw in himself was a single truth, and an almost blinding level of devotion to it.  Now, he struggled with the need to compromise.

He could insist Nadyn be moved, he could try to postpone the audit, or he could claim responsibility and show her to the Gul like some kind of trophy.  No matter how he considered the situation, there was more benefit for himself than for his patient.  He could not disguise himself anymore.

Parmak shifted and leaned back against the pipe.  It was beginning to get dark, by now, and the metal was a tolerable temperature when combined with the sweat that had soaked through the back of his shirt.

Nadyn looked at him inquisitively, and brought his hand to the top of her head.  Beya tried to offer encouragement by sitting down on his other side, this time asking before mirroring the motion.

“ **Soothe** ,” Beya asked, “ **or stop**?”

“ **It’s alright** ,” he decided, “ **thank you**.”

They fell asleep there, gradually and individually.  Nadyn drifted off first, then Beya, and then Parmak, after realizing he had uprooted clumps of Nadyn’s hair.  He resolved to apologize in the morning, hoping he would eventually get a chance to stuff them into his box.

***

“So, you do your _work_ in Bajoran?” Bashir asked.

Garak’s insistence on trust had only briefly pacified him.  Bashir considered it romantic, at first, but then shook his head and decided - since this was Garak he was dealing with - his intention must have been different.  He knew Cardassians were attracted to a certain degree of argument, and he and Garak had days like that, but there were also days where Garak called him ‘my dear’ so many times that he guessed Garak was annoyed with him.

“Yes, my dear,” Garak flashed his teeth, and Bashir leaned back.  “When you work with Bajorans, you tend to work _in_ Bajoran, as well.”

He was reading, for at least the tenth time, one of Odo’s reports.  The details were drilled into his head somewhere near his inactive implant; he did not need the repetition, but he found it comforting.

Garak’s own name was not on the list, despite matching the pattern.  He burrowed into the warmth of this fact, shoulders rustling as he lowered himself in his seat and smiled down at the PADD.  He needed to invent this particular brand of pride - he could not recall any examples of parents trying and failing to murder their children, then being _pleased_ to be reunited - so the feeling was temporary.

Pythas, the other son - not by blood but certainly by favor - was not named on the list either.

This, Garak found less comforting.  It was open-ended and decidedly awful, that after all these years and all of Odo’s meticulous records, he could not find Pythas.  He knew there were both good and bad reasons for disappearing, though, and force-fed himself the consolation.

Bashir continued leaning away, until he was pressed tight against the back of his chair, viewing Garak from the widest possible angle.  

“Are you alright, Garak?”

After Bashir met his eyes, Garak praised him for being so perceptive, and ultimately said ‘no.’

***

The three of them remained there until morning, only stirring when Ramet’s armor caught the light and disturbed their sleep.

Parmak blinked up at him, heavily, while the women retreated nervously from his sides.

Ramet gave his customary slow nod, as he deposited schematics for the separator and two packs of rations.  Parmak sighed at the discrepancy and all the convoluted, frustrating, and exhausting argument that would go into splitting them.  They were never given an evenly divisible amount; Ramet liked watching the gradual shifts in power and strength to help him decide on his objectives for the day.  The workers who ate could complete physical tasks, and the ones who oversaw the distribution could be given orders to delegate in the same way.  

He stooped to watch them, and then to inspect their progress.

“Is it functional already, Kelas?” he asked.  “I would think, if you’ve fallen asleep out here, that--”

“No,” Parmak said firmly.

Beya conserved her energy by tearing one of the packets open and in half in the same motion.  The food inside was single spongy square, the same dimensions as its wrapper.  In the past, she had tried expanding it in water, but found the result unpalatable.  Now, she slid one-and-a-half of the squares to Nadyn, and broke the remaining half down again for herself and Parmak to share.  He knew many synonyms for ‘ **refuse** ’ but Beya accepted none of them.

Ramet observed this and clicked his tongue.

“That is all I could bring here.”

The apology was ineffective and did nothing to calm Parmak’s stomach.

“We can’t finish like this,” Parmak said.  “I can barely lift my arms over my head, how can I move machinery?”

“I did offer you food from home,” Ramet said, like the mere offer was sustenance enough.  “You should not have refused me.”

Parmak could not find fault with that.  Not with the reasoning, anyway, even though the concept was horrifying.

“You have sixteen cycles left to finish it, Kelas.  Again, that is all I have to give you.”

“The time is fine,” he conceded, “it’s the resources that are insufficient.  You _will_ give me more food or more workers, or it simply will not get done.”

When Ramet leaned in close to him, Nadyn retreated while Beya moved nearer to offer support.  

“The privilege of debate is above you,” he said, in a wavering little growl that Parmak would have otherwise found pitiable. “They’re saying the exact same things back at the tent, Kelas, where I’m making them do your work for you.  Instantly, I’ve had to double their workload, and they’re begging for Nadyn to come back, and ‘that woman Beya, and that traitor Kelas.’  They’re calling you a traitor to your own people, doesn’t that sicken you?”

“No,” Parmak repeated.  “That’s made me feel _much_ better than the food you’ve brought.”

Ramet stood and crumpled his fists at his sides.  He did not like feeling obsolete.

“I will send for Cardassian rations from Terok Nor in my own name,” he offered.  “I will try to have them delivered on the Auditor’s ship.  Until then, this is how you will need to continue.”

“It’s not enough.”

Parmak was not bargaining, but telling the truth.  He considered disclosing the fact Nadyn was pregnant and already clearly suffering complications from another condition, but it was outside of his rights, without her permission.  The feeling reminded him a lot of the time he told his family he was leaving the pre-military program for a medical one, without even knowing his admittance results first.  He remembered their skepticism and their insistence that he would not make a meritable physician.  Based on his career so far, he had to admit they were right.  He held onto the hope that he would not have made a good Glinn, either, while he watched Ramet glance down at his boots.   

Ramet was busy considering the power-source in this arrangement.  

“It’s more than enough,” Ramet countered.  “It’s _half_ my workforce.”

He turned and reached for Beya’s forearm.  She batted him away, stood up, and shifted her weight between defensive and offensive stances.  

“ **I meant no harm** ,” Ramet said, extending his arm peacefully instead, then gesturing in the direction he arrived from.  “ **You will come with me.  Your work is needed at the tent, not here**.”

Parmak stood now, too.

“If you so much as _think_ of hurting her, I--”

“You can return when _your_ work is done.  I am being nothing but reasonable, Kelas.  I hope you’ll come to recognize that.   **Come** , Beya.”

She and Parmak had not left each other’s side for more than a year.  Their coexistence brought each a strength they otherwise lacked, forcing themselves to be brave when the other was threatened.

Beya glanced between them and - when Parmak did not give any verbal indication one way or the other - threw her arms forward and drove her hands into Ramet’s shoulders.  He stumbled backward but easily overpowered her, digging his nails into the soft, thin flesh of her wrists until she relented.  

“ **I will not hurt you** ,” he said, voice quivering again.  

Ramet took her arm and tugged her away, pressing her wrist until it bled into his nails and repeating this mantra with every step they managed to take together.  But Beya remained unconvinced, stuck silently on the faultline of screaming and sobbing, with the planes only drifting further apart.   

***

Parmak did almost _nothing_ during the remaining work cycles before the audit.  What began as inconsolable agitation became outright refusal.  For the first few cycles, Ramet continued bringing them rations to share, but then he ceased visiting at all.  There was no progress for Parmak to show him, so he sighed and professed his wishes for Parmak to ‘feel better’ soon.  In enough time to do an acceptable job and help build Ramet’s reputation, nothing more.  

Parmak gave all of the food to Nadyn.  It was the only thing he knew how to do.  Without Beya as an intermediary, he had little hope of understanding anything complex about her condition, and he had no one to compare her to.  Some of her problems were objective, of course, but he had nothing at his disposal with which to attempt treatment.  

Between them, they accumulated a little pile of mismatched hair, packet wrappers, and all the tools that had surrendered to the sand and become inoperable.  This, and their bodies, was all they had.

On their first evening alone, all he did was inquire after Beya.

“ **What will happen**?” he kept asking, and all Nadyn did was frown.

“ **He has never hurt** **_me_** ,” Nadyn forced herself to sound hopeful.

They were silent and mostly inactive for several more days, dividing their food and sheltering their water supply in the shade.

“ **Cycles**?” Parmak asked, when the days began melting together.  

Nadyn was lying beneath the half-assembled pipe, where the shade compromised with the grit of the ground.  She gave an indeterminate flash of her hand, but did not hold it long enough for Parmak to count her fingers.  He didn’t know if she was counting them up or down, anyway.  The same struggle with tenses applied to his speech.

“ **Cycles until** Ramet **was here last**?”

“ **I don’t know**.”

He knelt and held his head beneath the pipe, to see her more clearly.  

“ **He’ll come back for the audit, he has to** ,” Nadyn offered.

“Maybe he was reassigned.  I can’t imagine he’s done anything to give the military a good name.”

She did not waste her breath on asking ‘ **what**?’ anymore.  Instead, she shut her eyes and tried to assign Parmak’s quiet vocalizations to a song in her head, in between coughs and sneezes.

“I feel it’s been at _least_ eighteen already.  I will need to tell him about you before the auditor comes, you know.  Maybe he will get you on the ship out of here.   **Will you stop lie down that way**?”

She opened her eyes and shifted as directed, while he sighed and pressed his hands over her abdomen.  His fingers fit eerily between her ribs; he shook his head and moved them downward.

“ **How long, usually, are pregnancy… work cycles**?”

Nadyn flipped her hand quickly up and down.

“ **Don’t know** ,” she said. “ **You’re asking me to put hours into months.  A lot,** Kelas.   **Hundreds**.”

He got ‘ **hundreds** ’ and sighed again.  Then he apologized repeatedly, in every variation he knew, as he rolled up her shirt and moved his hands to her back.

“ **Breathe, please**.”

She yelped once, when his hand passed over a bruise that formed after all the nights she spent sleeping on rocks, bent up beneath the pipe.  

Parmak sat down in the shade and reclined her gently by the shoulders, until she was resting more comfortably in his lap.  He offered to let her sleep here, instead, and she never found the conviction to refuse.

“ **Are you going to finish it**?” she asked this at the end of every day, giving a passing gesture to the glittering wires over their heads.

“ **No**.  Why waste the energy?”

The lingering silence made him uncomfortable, forcing him to swallow the feeling he was failing at his assignments.  All of them.  He was not helping Nadyn and he was not translating for Ramet and he was not finishing the retrofit, he was just thinking of every mistake that brought him to this point.  His thoughts circled in on themselves, biting their own tails, blinding themselves.  He had to chase the wild dogs away from his doorstep.

He had to say something, or he would never fall asleep.

“I want to tell you a story,” he confessed.  

Nadyn blinked and nodded sweetly, shutting her eyes when he continued speaking, trying to hum along even though her throat was parched.

“Not a good story,” he said, and the tinge of regret in his tone was enough for her to change the key of her song.  

He set one hand hesitantly in her hair, afraid of moving it and uprooting any more.  Despite this and her other symptoms, he was fairly certain she was younger than he was.

“The Occupation has been going on all my life,” he explained.  “I was born into it, I played it as a game with other children.  As if there wasn’t enough suffering, we imagined more.  We went to school and learned about it and reenacted it and molded ourselves to fit it, more or less.”

Parmak scratched compulsively at his knuckles, over the space his lock of hair had agitated.  He did this every day, too, so the skin alternated constantly between raw and re-healed.

“But I knew I didn’t want to be in the military,” Parmak went on, agitating his own hand instead of Nadyn’s hair.  “The other boys argued over who should be which famous Gul, and I would just ask ‘what about when you get hurt?’  ‘Who would hurt us?’ they said, and I shook my head at them.  I couldn’t say ‘Bajorans’ of course, even though it was true and likely, and I couldn’t say they were prone to accidents themselves, either.  Even ten-year-old Guls in paper armor don’t like to hear that.”

“ **You’re hurt**?” Nadyn gathered.

“ **Maybe-yes**.  I had to keep it a secret, the fact I seriously considered helping anyone, that I was more concerned with wellness than affiliation.  Doesn’t that sound backwards, Nadyn?  It’s not like either side is happy, anyway.   _And,_ I’d even say if we’d been willing to help each other earlier, none of us would see this as a good goal to work for.  Don’t you think?  If we told the ten-year-olds ‘no, this is not something to be romanticized’ maybe they wouldn’t end up commanding camps of their own, twenty years down the line.  That’s not what happened, though - they took _me_ aside and told _me_ to stop thinking the way I did.  They would have moved me into remedial classes, if I let my memorization scores suffer.  But there was no proof anything was wrong with me.  I just had to stay quiet.”

“ **You** **_are_ ** **hurt** ,” Nadyn emphasized, squeezing his wrist while he chipped away at his knuckles.

“ **Everyone is hurt** , that’s what I’m saying.  No good can come of this, not for anyone.”

“ **Do you want to go home**?” she got the impression he was reminiscing, but could not imagine anyone speaking kindly of sparse Cardassia.  She had been there before. 

“ **No** , **do you**?”

“ **No**.   **This was my home, and now I want nothing more than to leave it**.”

“Hmm.  I think I know the feeling.”

Thin, sickly blood pressed up through the skin on his hand, and Nadyn caught his wrist again to stop him from continuing.  

“I wasn’t going to,” he said.  “I didn’t _mean_ to.”

But intention was not a valid currency on Cardassia; it had been deflating since the Occupation began.

She reached for his other hand, and pressed the cuff of her ill-fitting sleeve into the wound.

“That’s it,” he exclaimed.  “I _know_ the rate my own skin should heal at…  I may not know a _thing_ about Bajoran medicine, but false name or not, I studied my own.”

He confined the calculations to his thoughts.

“Even accounting for the hypertension, I don’t think it’s been more than, **sorry** , **thirty cycles with Ramet last**.”

Nadyn considered him skeptically, just barely opening her eyes.

“ **That’s a long time** ,” she corrected.

“ **Yes**?”

“ **He cared very much about the separator, he’d been telling me about it for** **_weeks_ ** **before you showed up**.   **Something must be wrong, or he would’ve come to supervise the audit**.”

Parmak knew enough of these individual words to piece her meaning together.  All he needed was practice.

“ **What, then**?” he asked, “ **Do we go back**?”

He wanted the answer to be obvious; neither of them had eaten in several days, and their source of water was nearly empty, too.  But in this clash of cultures, nothing was simple to solve anymore.

First, he could not in good conscience pressure Nadyn to walk all the way back to the tent.  He did not know if he could carry her either, or if he could even trace Ramet’s deteriorating footprints in the correct direction.  Then there was the issue of Ramet himself - would he be there for them to return to, or would he have been replaced by someone less understanding?  Perhaps it was preferable to sit here in the sand, holding hands with someone who was trying their hardest to care about their companion, waiting for death to arrive in any of its forms.  

Nadyn did not seem ready to give up, though, so Parmak gave her hand a grateful pat. 

“ **Tomorrow in the morning** ,” he said.  “ **Can you do that, walk**?”

“ **I must.  Can you**?”


	4. Chapter 4

Just because Nadyn needed to complete the walk did not mean she could.  

Her spirit was far from broken.  When they first departed, after she drank all of their remaining water at once, Parmak struggled to keep up with her.  But then she stumbled and fell in the sand, and Parmak dismissed the thought of scolding her.

He offered her his arm, bent hers stiffly around his waist, and trudged forward.  He knew he could not actually carry her.  For him, tempering his compassion with energy conservation was a struggle.

They left before sunset and arrived within view of the tent with the sun high over their backs.  Parmak blinked and tried to clear the sand from his eyes.  Even then, it was too bright for him to tell who the armored figure was, who paced around the perimeter of the tent.  It could have been Ramet, the Gul, the Auditor, anyone.  He turned to Nadyn and posed the question quietly.

“ **Who**?”

She had been mumbling for most of the journey - Parmak asked her to recount her past profession even though he would not understand any of it, because he wanted to be sure she stayed conscious - but she did not reply.

“Nadyn?   **We are here,** Nadyn, **please**.”

Nadyn gave a pained but otherwise affirmative groan, and Parmak mumbled his gratitude to her Prophets.

They continued their slow approach until Parmak was ashamed of being pleased to finally recognize Ramet in the armor.  

“She needs help,” Parmak called.

Ramet nodded and sent two of his crew to collect her.  She was carried to the tent and deposited inside.  Parmak was not convinced this would do any good, and added it to his list of demands.

At this point, Ramet ceased pacing and gestured impatiently for Parmak to approach.

“Why did you stop coming to see us?” Parmak asked.

From the middle of the group of workers, Beya recognized his voice and turned to look up at him.  

“Is the work done, Kelas?”

“You didn’t even bring us _food_ , we--”

“Is,” he said sharply, “the work _done_?”

Parmak leaned back and used all of his strength to look Ramet in the eye.

“No.”

“Then my intuition and actions were justified.  Would you expect me to waste what little resource I have on someone who can’t follow simple instructions?”

Parmak curled his damaged fingers into a fist.

“I told you to come back when it was finished, Kelas.  I’m disappointed in your weakness, and I do not appreciate being lied to.”

“I don’t either, Ramet.  What about the audit?  You lied about that.  And Nadyn?  You refuse to acknowledge anything is wrong with her--”

“I did not lie about the audit.  Fortunately for you, it’s been postponed.”

This was true.  Terok Nor had garnered some attention from a Resistance cell, and was in no state to be sending its foreman on an auditing errand.  Ramet was given this information, and refused their offers to send an officer of a lower rank to complete the process in Dukat’s place.  The rations he requested remained there also.

“They’re very busy,” Ramet continued.  “The place is a castle, Terok Nor.  They have shops there, and restaurants, and doctors.  Why would anyone trade _that_ for a single minute here?”

Ramet’s excuse was crafted to defend the State, of course, but it mistakenly dipped into self-deprecation at the end.  

“You have a Doctor here,” Parmak muttered, “but no one lets me practice.”

“Beya’s filled your role very well, Kelas, with only minimal coercion.”

Beya looked at him again, pressing her lips together and giving a flaring breath through her nostrils.

Parmak did not have time to perfect his attack.  He brought up his fist, content that his skin was too numb to feel the impact, and punched the ridge on Ramet’s jaw.

“What is wrong with you?” Ramet shouted, taking a single step backward. “I’m enough of a man to keep my word.  Sit down and cross your arms - how _dare_ you? - I told you I wouldn’t hurt her, _sit_!”

Parmak did as he was told, and Beya scooted closer to his side but remained quiet.

“Stay right there, and don’t expect any water until tomorrow night.”

“Fine,” said Parmak, “I give Nadyn my rations anyway.”

Ramet huffed, kicked dirt in Parmak’s face, and turned to leave.  After Ramet was inside his tent, Beya nudged Parmak’s arm.  

“ **I told him about** Nadyn,” she whispered.

“ **He didn’t** … **order you to, did he**?”

“ **No, no**.   **He let me stay inside the tent at night and didn’t come anywhere near me** , **not that I would’ve let him**.   **All he did was talk, and I listened.** ”

“ **What things did he say**?”

Beya checked to be be sure the tent was still zipped shut, and directed one of the other workers to keep watch of it.

“ **There was no audit because of an attack** ,” she said.  Then, hoping Parmak would recognize the phrase, she added, “ **a Resistance cell attack**.”

“Oh,” Parmak nodded.

“ **I’m going to find out how to contact them**.”

“ **What, Resistance cell**?”

“ **Yes.**    **For** Nadyn, **if not the rest of us**.”

“ **He knows that, also**?”

“ **No, no**.   **But he knows her condition**.   **He will keep her out of sight now** , **I’m sure**.”

From their disjointed conversations and Ramet’s nightly whining about being under-appreciated, Beya gathered his opinion on the pregnancy while knowing Nadyn was safely out of reach of retaliation.  He admitted to hoping she would die on the retrofitting assignment, especially if he kept his distance.  A half-Cardassian baby was no way to improve his reputation; it was not even his child, but he knew his claims would be ignored and no tests would be conducted on it before its inevitable death.

“ **He says she’s been that way since she arrived** ,” Beya concluded.

“ **Then birth, soon**?”

“ **Maybe-yes, yes**.”

“I have a lot to learn.”

***

Doctor Bashir stood and rushed immediately to Garak’s side.  Garak refused his hand and stood without assistance.

“Never mind, Doctor.  Pretend I didn’t say anything.  I’m absolutely fine.”

Bashir looked at the PADD of Bajoran text on the table, then at Garak’s intentionally blank face.  

“Does someone else need help?  One of your friends?”

Garak took one step forward, lifting his chin so he could at least pretend he was glaring down at Bashir.  

“It is somewhat naive of you, Doctor, to assume I have any friends at all in the Obsidian Order.”

“I w-- don’t you?”

“Not that I know of, anyway, but that’s rather the point of these arrangements.  Now, about the book you loaned me…”

“No, Garak.  If something’s wrong, that can wait.”

***

With Nadyn blockaded inside the tent and the rest of the crew sitting in their meditative state outside, Parmak and Beya pieced together a plan.

“ **I need to know the name of the unit leader** \--”

“I hope someone, anyone in our group has had a child before--”

Then they both ceased speaking, apologized for interrupting, and made amends by trying to fix the other’s problem.

“ **I can talk to them** , **it’s easy**.   **I’ll tell you everything I find out**.”

“ **And I can** , uh, no, **order** isn’t quite right, but **I can order Ramet to tell me.  Ask-order**?” 

“ _Interrogate_?” Beya returned. “The word is ‘ **Interrogate**.’”

Parmak shut his eyes and said “ **no**.”

“I want to say ‘pressure,’” Parmak continued after a moment. “I want him to feel he owes me something.  Not ‘favor’ though, stronger than that.  You know?”

Beya nodded along with every word.  He did know which language to use if she needed clarification - Bajoran always risked conspiracy charges, while Cardassian lost their privacy from Ramet.

“ **Where did you learn speaking Cardassian**?” he decided.

“ **It’s important when you’re in a Resistance cell** ,” she replied, rubbing her temple. “ **I** ... **I don’t remember** where **I learned, now that you’re asking** …”

Parmak lowered his voice to a whisper, dropping several words altogether due to the dryness of his throat.

“ **I didn’t know you were in a Resistance cell**.”

“ **Well I’m not** **_now_** _._ ”

They shrugged at each other, and agreed that Beya probably _had_ shared this information in the past, but Parmak misunderstood it.

“When?” he asked.  A few words out of context was safe, he decided.

“Before I was here.  Two or three years, not long.”

“And you think **you can still contact**?”

“I don’t see why not.  Tell the Glinn whatever he wants to hear,” she turned, stood up halfway, and trudged away from him, “ **I’ll ask about families**.”

Parmak expected to see Ramet’s head creeping between the tent curtains, especially after they spoke in Cardassian - Beya handled his language more deftly than he did hers - but the fabric panels remained shut and still.  He stood and sighed, resigning any meaningful progress to his own hand.  But as he approached the tent, Beya turned to frown at him.  She was right; there was no need to upset Ramet now that they actually needed him.

Parmak forgot he had agreed to remain in his place on the ground for the rest of the day.  He stooped and returned to it, waiting for Beya to bring him the information he requested.  Even with his eyes shut tight, the sunlight stung him.

Beya came to him and touched his shoulder later in the evening, when the fuzzy yellow stars that burned against his eyelids had shifted into a calmer red.  He opened his eyes, uncrossed them, and saw she had smuggled him water as well as words.  She leaned in and spoke to him quietly while he drank.

“Tilo is a father,” she explained. “He is the only one.  I’m sure you understand, many of us did not have children as the Occupation worsened.”

Parmak coughed and was careful to herd all of the water droplets that dribbled from his chin back into their bag.  

“Your accent is very unique,” he admitted. “Lakarian, I think.”

It seemed fitting, that a Bajoran cell could only safely send its members to a disused historical region for their training.  He tried again to finish his water, with some restraint.

“ **He watched the delivery** ,” Beya continued. “ **Understand**?”

“ **Sorry, yes**.”

“Fine, Doctor.”

She paused to consider the most effective way to relay her findings to Parmak, but she was afraid it would not be very helpful and hated the idea of disappointing him.

“ **Breech** ,” she said, trying to draw over herself so he would understand, “the doctor rotated it and ruin-- no, no, **broke**? -- **broke the baby’s** nose, **her** ridges **are crooked**.”

She traced the straight line down his nose, and flipped her hand to compare it to the curve beneath his eye.  This was good enough.

“ **Did he say anything about** … **the rest of process**?”

“Not that I know how to tell you,” Beya said apologetically.  “I will help when the time comes.”

***

Nadyn remained inside the tent and Ramet did not grant anyone admission.

“I heard you were a doctor,” he tried to reason with Parmak. “I can’t do that.”

“I _am_ a doctor, yes.  You need to let me see her.”

It had been two weeks.  

“With what?” Ramet countered, “Last I checked, all you have to your name is an empty box.”

“You _must_ have access to some kind of medical equipment,” Parmak said.  “What if you or the Gul gets hurt?”

Ramet’s voice dipped into a pool of bitterness, beyond his better judgement.

“We are as replaceable as the rest of you.”

“At least let Beya see her, then.  She’ll need help.  You can’t just… ignore her.”

“Don’t argue with me, Kelas.  Finish this pan, please, and then we can discuss it rationally.”

He rushed through his work and met Ramet in the shade, while the others continued in the sunlight.  Parmak’s guilt increased every time one of the workers paused to wipe sweat from their foreheads.  He pressed his fingers into the indentation on his, but drew them away quickly when Ramet arrived.

“I don’t trust Beya to do more than dig,” Ramet said firmly. “I told her too much.”

This admission picked up Parmak’s original plan for releasing Nadyn and bent it beyond recognition.  He hoped his years of service taught him enough about Ramet to attempt a correction.

 _Tell him exactly what he wants to hear_ , he thought.

“Oh, a commendable decision,” Parmak said, “but I hope it isn’t too late.”

Ramet nodded slowly, sizing Parmak up and trying to deduce his intentions.  Parmak was able to hide all of them except the overarching compassion, which, as his interrogator once taught him, was very easy to exploit.

Much to Parmak’s relief, Ramet did not possess the same skills.

“Too late for _what_ , exactly?” he remained skeptical.

Parmak parted his lips, flashed his teeth, and prepared to lie.

“Beya used to lead a Resistance cell, you know.  The same one that attacked Terok Nor; she told me all about it.  They’ll be liberating the splinter camps, next.”

Ramet crossed his arms while he considered this, determined to look more imposing and serious than the secondhand threats Parmak was giving him.

“I will let you see Nadyn _and_ provide a medkit if you tell me everything you know about her.  That’s an order; you keep a constant eye on her, Kelas.”

Parmak had always known his friendship with her compromised her safety.  

He expected the camp was perfectly safe, and that Beya had no connection or contact with this cell.  The odds of it being her former unit were so very low, anyway.  But he wanted to look forward to leaving, even if the promise was artificial.  They all lived for false promises, here.  Even Ramet, who dreamed the Occupation would continue long enough for him to receive a promotion.  Capturing an entire cell and saving his post would be a step in the right direction.

“I’ll get her file and your medkit from Terok Nor,” Ramet concluded. “Tell me everything about her - is it her given name - ‘Beya’ - or her surname?  Her age, her place of birth, the name of her cell…”

With an inviting flourish of his hand, Ramet indicated the tent.  Inside, Nadyn was writhing on the floor and failing to fall asleep.  Parmak nodded and shared what he knew - her supposed training in the Lakarian region, her approximate age, her lack of children.

It was the same as his interrogation, exactly the same.  He withered and relented and confessed things without knowing if they were true or not.  The nature of Cardassian truth was fickle, and based entirely on one’s perception.  For this reason, he began to believe the things he and Ramet discussed.  They made more than enough sense to qualify as truth, and Beya’s actions were certainly sufficient to mark her as guilty of all Parmak claimed she had done.

It was the same, also, as the year he’d spent under the perverse supervision of the Gul.  His trust was torn and exploited, his actions carefully controlled.  Even when he was not given direct orders, he would notice subtle changes in the taste of his water, the extra moments he was allowed to sit and rest in the shade.  He was so afraid of being comfortable - why had he let himself become trusting and open with Beya?  As a result, they were both in danger.  She was not in contact with a Resistance cell and now she never would be.

Ramet held open the curtain, shoving Parmak inside and calling for Beya to join them.

“Watch her,” Ramet repeated, as she approached.  “I must take care of something.”

Instantly, Parmak was alone with the two people he valued most, and all of the resources available to his segment.  Inside the tent he could see the boxes of rations sorted by their shipment dates, the vats of water with their clarification tablets dissolving slowly inside, and Ramet’s personal locker of equipment and provisions.  

Parmak wondered what damage he should do.

***

Breathless, Ramet arrived at the Gul’s command center and tried to compose himself.  He carried a PADD under his arm and eagerly displayed his quarterly results to the door-sensor.

“Your next administrative meeting is not for another--” the Gul began, through a speaker.

“With utmost respect, Sir,” Ramet replied, “this cannot wait until then.”

As Ramet had done to Parmak only minutes prior, the Gul prodded for more information before disengaging the lock.  The facts - however shakily Ramet regurgitated them - were enough to stir the Gul into action.

He would not yet initiate any communication with the foreman directly, in case Ramet turned out to be incorrect.  But he set up his viewscreen and called the station, where one of Dukat’s Glinns answered and offered the full extent of his access codes.

“Thank _you_ , Boheeka,” Ramet calmed his voice and tried to sound gracious. “You’re certain it will work out-of-range?”

“It will,” Boheeka confirmed. “The specifications should be on your screen shortly.”

Ramet had requested a one-way translation device so he could oversee all of Parmak and Beya’s future interactions.  He had already made it clear he did not trust Beya, and he saw no reason for Parmak to interpret anything that might degrade her image or their connection.  Therefore, he decided he could not trust either one of them.

He retrieved the device the moment the industrial replicator finished fabricating it.  As he pressed it into place behind his ear, Glinn Boheeka asked if he required anything else.  Boheeka was bound by his commission to share his resources with an equal, but Ramet tried copying the Gul’s smug grin and then asked for too much.

“I’d like this woman’s file sent along as well,” Ramet said. “As quickly as possible, please.”

Boheeka nodded curtly.

“I will see what I can do.  ‘Beya,’ wasn’t it?”

Ramet nodded and Boheeka typed.  He was met with an error message; his code was denied access.

“I will need some more time, and details,” Boheeka concluded.

***

Parmak knelt at Nadyn’s side and pressed his palms to her forehead, her cheeks, the sides of her neck; it was all he could do to cool her skin and determine the cause of the fever.  Beya stood and stared up at the towering shelves of supplies, searching for something that Parmak could use to help.

Dredging up her memory of the written symbols only worsened Beya’s headache, but she persisted, spelling out any of the words she was not confident in pronouncing.  

“And these rations are from six cycles ago,” she said, in conclusion.

“I knew he withheld some on purpose,” Parmak muttered.

Nadyn stirred and grasped at his hands impatiently.

“Give them out,” Parmak decided, shrugging and letting Nadyn tug his hands down. “Feed the rest of the crew, and take a water with you, whichever has most of the sediment gone.”

Beya understood this intuitively, and prepared the designated items to bring outside.  

“ **Locker**?” she asked, indicating it with a pat of her hand.  

The metal replied with a hollow, clanging echo, so Parmak knew what she wanted without turning his head.

“ **I’ll look at it** , hang on.   **Give me all** … **clothes you can reach**.”

She collected two mesh bins from the wall, and, upon lifting their lids, discovered one was empty.  The full one contained weeks’ worth of torn uniforms and nicked maille, waiting to be sent to Terok Nor for repair.  The empty one was meant to hold finished replacements.  Beya tipped out the contents and provided everything that was passably clean to Parmak, dropping it beside him by the armful.

He sorted through the tunics and used them to wipe the sweat from all he could reach of her body.  Beya listened to his mumbled diagnosis and did everything she could to help, retrieving one of the unpurified vats of water and sponging it over Beya with a patch of fabric.  

“If I knew what minerals were in that…” Parmak said to himself.  

Urgently, he stood and stepped toward the locker.  

“ **Where would he keep detection units**?   **Ore and metal** , **sorting**?”

Beya returned to the shelf of supply boxes, and tried again to read some of the more difficult labels.  

“ **He would not keep them locked up** ,” she reasoned, “ **I’m sure he keeps only weapons in there.** ”

Ramet, by now, had returned to the threshold of the tent, and understood her perfectly.


	5. Chapter 5

Ramet swallowed hard and stepped inside, then stroked through his hair to ensure it covered his listening device.   

He noticed the stack of outdated rations, then the pile of rags as Parmak spread it across the floor in search of larger pieces.  Beya came forward and met him where he stood, forbidding him from walking any further.

“How long has she been this way?” Beya demanded, “and why haven’t you let Doctor Kelas see her?”

Her accent was now as Parmak described it, not the more sterile and controlled one provided by Ramet’s device.  She was confronting him in Cardassian.

“We’ve… made arrangements,” he eventually said.  “A medkit will be arriving for you tomorrow, Kelas.”

Parmak wanted to continue the line of questioning - How long had Nadyn had the fever? What caused it? Was she able to digest her vitamin tablets? - but he expected this would be fruitless.  He considered harsh interrogation to be unreliable at best, and did not want to hear any of Ramet’s attempts at excuses.  None would be acceptable, and Parmak would rather be a compassionate caregiver than an angry one.  Nadyn required all of his attention.

“It’s fine, Beya, leave it,” he instructed.

She combined her reluctant nod with spitting at Ramet’s feet.

“Just stay quiet and sit down,” Parmak said. “And bring me a scanner for the water.  Which supply has she been drinking from?”

Ramet opened his locker and sifted through the contents, making a point to demonstrate no weapons were inside.  He provided Parmak with his personal scanner, made for verifying the usable metallic content of their daily excavations.  

Parmak scanned the water vats until he found those that could have induced the fever, and others that might - if he could intensify the concentration of their minerals - help relieve it.  

He was much more effective the following day, when he received the medkit.  A quick ultrasound confirmed his theory that the baby had the same struggle processing the Bajoran supplements as he did; he worked diligently on an intravenous solution to correct this.  He deduced, also, that Nadyn’s fever was a result of their wildly different body temperatures, and her inability to regulate a suitably warm environment within her womb.  With additional scans, he found residual eggshell, which Nadyn was apparently unable to dissolve internally; he wondered how their two races were compatible at all.  Perhaps they were not.

Parmak was not optimistic about the rapidly-approaching delivery.

The best thing Beya could do to be reassuring was remain constant.  She stayed at Nadyn’s side and held her while she shook, and spoke softly of all the traditions they could begin looking forward to - the naming ceremony, the baptism, the piercing and fitting, the acknowledgement of the ancient D’jarra.  

Ramet spent the days observing them quietly, and slept outside at night with his workers.  Nadyn was almost entirely confined to the cot, and Parmak and Beya built up the piles of clothes on either side so they could both lay beside her.  Parmak held her to keep her cool.

She babbled a little, then, about the child’s father.  Parmak apologized for creating any similarity and immediately withdrew, but she reached for his hands and reset them.

“ **He was always kind to me** ,” she emphasized.  “ **We worked together on the station, he’s the reason I want to go back.  But I say ‘too soon’ because I will be recognized.  I was sent away for his benefit.  And he thought the baby might be mine, something to stop me working in the processing facilities.  He was right in a way, bless him**.   **Do you have family,** Beya?”

Beya rubbed her head often, despite the darkness of the room and the medication Parmak devised for her.  He reached out for her and she took his hand, rather than letting him continue up to her forehead.

“ **None that I remember fondly**.   **You** , Kelas?”

She squeezed her fingers tight between his; her palm was cold, and her nails were chipped and ragged.  They scratched lightly at his knuckles.

“I had one good instructor.   **But family, the same** ,” he said, “ **never all believing in me, but that is a Cardassian** … **fault.  Yes, blood-fault, all of us.** ” 

“There is no fault in your blood,” Beya said, taking concern in his metaphor.  “Tell me something else, anything at all.”

When Beya asked for stories, he provided them.  He began with the same one he relayed to Nadyn, about acting out the Occupation with other children in school.

“ **I remember doing that too** ,” Beya said, “ **and we always won**.”

***

After a week of completely worthless discussions and steady improvement in Nadyn’s condition, Ramet lost his leverage and became impatient.  He cycled through all of the settings on his listening device, but the conversations remained nostalgic and decidedly nonviolent.

“I will need her file,” Ramet demanded, when he was able to contact Glinn Boheeka again.

“I did not find any record of that name,” Boheeka explained.

Both of them sat at screens in their supervisor’s rooms, with the supervisor in question pacing behind them.

“I told you exactly where to look,” Ramet remained incredulous.  “The same cell that--”

“Yes,” interrupted Gul Dukat from the background.  “I’m afraid you’re acting on a false lead, allowing it to distract you from a more pressing threat.  Has she said anything else that might incriminate her, or her co-conspirators?”

Ramet glanced at his supervisor for a moment, then gave an agitated sigh.

“All they discuss is their families, and I haven’t heard any specific names.”

“Hmmm,” said Dukat, perfectly inverting Ramet’s sigh, “ _They_?  If I were really worried about an attack, I would keep the contact in isolation.  Do you have any control over your workers at all, Mister Ramet?”

Ramet gave a shaky nod, pleased to hear his name was remembered even if his title was purposely dropped to offend him.  

“Then we have nothing further to discuss.”

“But Gul Dukat, Sir--”

Dukat paused and leaned over Boheeka’s shoulder, peering slyly into the viewscreen.

“Yes, Mister Ramet?” he said again.

Ramet knew better than to ask what could be gained by forcing Beya to live in isolation.  Dukat would expect him to torture her or worse, and Ramet was sure Beya was more skilled at resisting than he was at initiating.  If nothing else, she had more practice.

“Have you… have you rescheduled our equipment audit?”

Dukat struck the key to terminate the transmission.  

***

“I don’t understand,” Bashir pleaded, “it’s a list of names?”

“If one is familiar with the names, the rest of the story becomes evident.  It’s an enigma tale, Doctor; I already know that all of these people are guilty.”

Garak obliged his friend and sat restlessly on one of the beds in the Infirmary, in the secluded wing where Doctor Bashir preferred to conduct his research.  Garak insisted he was in good health, but Bashir knew better than to abandon a formal diagnosis.  Not with Garak, who would never admit to anything.

“And you’re sure none of them are in danger?”

“It’s too late for _that_ , Doctor, I’ve told you.  This is Odo’s casualty report from--”

“Yes, yes, I _know_ , but if _you_ were able to survive, then maybe--”

Garak gave a fleeting thought to Doctor Parmak.  The image of the man was newly rekindled in his mind, after his brief conversation with Tain.  

“The Obsidian Order is not known for making mistakes,” he said firmly.

He recalled Parmak’s eyes, so gentle, so easily crushed by his own gaze.  His was endless and hostile and - most likely - mistaken.

Bashir approached him cautiously, setting down his tricorder and completing a scan with his eyes, instead.  He placed his hand on Garak’s shoulder and followed his gaze to the PADD, which sat dormant in his lap.

“Did you know any of them?” Bashir asked.

Garak considered his face.  The gentility was strikingly similar.  

“Yes,” Garak answered.  He knew less than half personally, and only a few others by name.  The one he knew best was not on the list, and he still did not know how to feel about this fact.

Bashir’s hand drifted from Garak’s shoulder down to the screen, where it tapped a name different from all the others.  It remained in the Bajoran order, while the others were adjusted to their native language.  Odo knew both, after all, and drifted respectfully between them to best achieve his objectives.

“Beyat Ijona?  A Bajoran?”

“Oh, I doubt that very much, Doctor.”

Bashir watched as Garak drummed his fingers over the screen.

“No, you’re lying to me, aren’t you?”

***

Beya and Ramet both wanted a chance to speak with Parmak privately.  Beya was desperate to ask if he managed to work any contact information out of Ramet, so she could tell the cell about Nadyn.  Ramet, meanwhile, needed to confront him about Beya.  He did not know enough about her, yet, and his contact on the station outright refused his requests until he could return with her full name.

While they glared at each other from opposing ends of the tent, Parmak focused on timing Nadyn’s contractions.  Beya had tried explaining the concept to him and he was terrified of making a mistake.  Nadyn dug her nails into the callus on his hand and he counted the seconds until she removed them.

Ramet sat down and asked, as casually as possible, how high the odds were that she would die.

“Distract me again and I _will_ throw you out.”

“I can’t believe you call yourself a doctor,” shrugged Ramet.  “Have you ever _seen_ a live birth?  I certainly haven’t.”

“And if I had my way, you never would,” Parmak muttered.

Beya continued glaring until Parmak called for her.  He tried to simplify his instructions, pointing to indicate the measurements he needed, but she returned with her numbers mixed up.

“ **I didn’t learn any of these words** ,” she said, tossing her arms at her sides, “ **I was a** **_soldier_** _.”_

“ **Here** ,” he sighed, “ **Sit here**.”

They traded places, and Beya copied his position precisely.  

“It may be several hours like this,” he explained, “but you mustn’t let go.”

She remained still while he took his measurements, repeating them often and noting even minor discrepancies.  

 

He had done everything in his power to strengthen Nadyn in time for the delivery, but still her grip weakened and her breathing slowed 

Nadyn was quiet for several contractions, and Parmak worried he had not done enough.

He ordered Ramet to bring his medkit and - as he was the only one who could understand the inscriptions - to give him the breathing mask and the anaesthetic cartridge.  Parmak planned to combine them.

With a resigned sigh, he forced the mask down over Nadyn’s mouth, sealed it, and dug through the kit for something to sterilize his hands.

“What are you doing?” Beya asked, while Ramet opted for the more pessimistic, “is she dying?”

Parmak was not sure how to answer either question.  His goal was to keep her breathing steadily, and to minimize her pain and the memory of it.  

“Keep counting, Beya,” he said.  

He needed to know if Nadyn’s unconscious body would progress through labor unassisted, or if he should intervene.  

“It’s like you said,” he told Ramet, while he scrubbed his hands, “I’ve never _seen_ a live birth, but I’ve done corrective surgery.”

Several times, in fact.  Once before he was awarded his certificate, and twice while under Tain’s employ.  He had removed an abscess and reset a fractured exoskeletal ridge.  With some reliance on this combination of skills, he continued.

***

Parmak recalled the day he sent his exam scores off to the Medical Academy, against everyone’s recommendation.  Or, at least, everyone except his Covert Tactics instructor at the Military Academy, who knew him best.  It was a requirement of his title, learning all he could about his students and bending his lessons to be most effective.  Young Parmak found the subject fascinating, but could never quite duplicate the results.

He was on his way to the Records Hall, after his last class cycle of the day and before the signaled curfew.  His instructor had a habit of approaching him quietly, and tapping his shoulder, barely enough for Parmak to register the sensation.

“They will not read it,” he said. “They will see your name and then they will delete the file.”

Parmak turned and cleared his throat.  He held the data chip in his hand, so the side of it peeked through his fingers.  He pulled them together and tightened them into a fist, but the admission was effectively made.

“What, ‘Parmak?’”

“‘Teket,’” he said, referring to Parmak’s legal designation.  “It is too strong for the sciences.  You will do better with something soft and approachable.”

As a rule, Cardassian legal forms were as vague as possible.  Parmak’s scores would be presented underneath his name, but no reference would be made to his age, sex, place of birth, or anything beyond his family’s political affiliation.  And, to the extent of his knowledge, 'Parmak' was untarnished. 

Parmak thought for a moment before reviving the conversation, but his instructor’s hand had never left its pulse.

“I’ve never--”

“--heard of a respectable male doctor, have you?”

“No, but I _am--_ ”

“--male, you’ve no doubt of that.  And a doctor, soon enough, _I’ve_ no doubt of that.”

“Sir?” Parmak began, holding out the data chip.

“Are you saying you don’t pay attention in Programming, either?”

He drew his hand back to his side.

“Just enough,” Parmak admitted.

His instructor grinned and gestured toward the Records Hall.

“Change it to anything you like, and then submit the scores.  Yours are more than high enough to get the Board’s attention.  Leave this to your numbers, not your name.”

“Yes, Sir.  Thank you.”

*** 

Like many aspects of Parmak’s life, the delivery did not coincide with any established plan.  But he had more practice with adapting than he did with Bajoran patients.

Halfway through the procedure, the anaesthetic cartridge made a hissing sound, then changed to a dark grey color to indicate it was empty.  Naturally, it was the only one in the medkit - Ramet remarked that multiple cartridges would have warranted extra clearance, as they could have been weaponized in the wrong hands - and it was listed with a higher dosage of xenon than it actually contained - either for the same reason, or because Cardassian science had a relatively wide margin for error in wartime.  They could not afford to be any more thorough or correct.  Parmak would have laughed under less dangerous circumstances.

Instead he had to watch in reserved and apologetic awe, as Nadyn awoke in time to witness the birth.  Parmak had to pry the mask off of her face so she could breathe; Beya locked their gazes and did not let Nadyn look away until the process was over.  This offered quick completion to their ever-strengthening bond, like Bajoran cement.  Parmak looked on and understood the potential intimacy of their action, if the mirror was a friend and not an interrogator.

They prayed together, and Nadyn was able to redirect most of her pain into the passion of her words, especially as she listened to Beya’s lead.  Parmak spoke all the words he knew.

They wept together, too.

Ramet watched quietly and hated to admit he was impressed.  He only did so after Parmak had to repeat his request for clean linens.

“The top of the pile by the bed,” he said, tucking the newborn into his arm and wiping their eyes.

“I didn’t believe you,” Ramet replied.  

He dug through the pile to find an undershirt that had belonged to him.  It was much cleaner than anything surrendered by the workers, and was only sentenced to the basket to have its sleeves lengthened.  Ramet generally gave off the impression of being shorter and less imposing than he actually was.  That, or the tailor did it on purpose.  He wasn’t sure.

“Thank you,” said Parmak, because it was the highest praise he had ever received: surpassing expectations, destroying the idea that he would never succeed.

Beya helped Nadyn into a sitting position, but lowered her again after she clenched her teeth in pain.  

“ **Rest** ,” Beya instructed, “ **I will tell you everything and** Kelas **will take care of us**.”

By tugging on the blanket Nadyn rested on, Beya was able to move her to the cleaner side of the bed.  Then she scooped up the remaining shards of eggshell, and said “ **told you** ,” to Parmak, rather than make Nadyn aware of the bleeding their passage had caused.

He reaffirmed to himself that stopping bleeding was one of his areas of expertise.  He looked through the kit and cleaned the wound inconspicuously, while Beya distracted Nadyn.

She held Nadyn’s head in her hands and asked if she could borrow her earring.  Nadyn made a motion to unclip it, but Beya gently caught her hand and finished the removal herself.  

“ **We’ve seen the birth of two Bajorans today** ,” Beya explained, eyeing Parmak.

He offered Beya the baby, and, once he understood her meaning, a sharper needle and a topical numbing agent from the kit.  Ramet slid back and sat against the wall, interested only in listening and not in watching.

Beya pricked the base of the baby’s right ear, and Parmak was surprised that this did not result in any further cries.  She looked lovingly into the newborn’s eyes, and ensured Nadyn was strong enough to hold them before surrendering them.

“May I?” she asked, leaning toward Parmak.

He was wiping his hands on one of the rags, and then dragging the back of his arm across his forehead to collect the sweat.  She looked inquisitively at the base of his ear, so closely that Parmak could feel and hear her breath, before leaning back and sighing at him.

“ **May you?** ” he aimed for confirmation.

“You are the second Bajoran,” she clarified. “Where will you wear it?”

Parmak expected the baby’s cartilage was either not fully developed, or was intentionally numb as a result of centuries of evolution.  He considered an equivalent, and ran his fingers thoughtfully down his neck.

“If you are very careful,” he said, indicating the scales, “no sensation is experienced _between_ them.  The raised fold of skin does not actually touch the neck, you see.”

She nodded and applied the topical solution before pressing the needle into place.  During this, Nadyn gathered the conviction to speak.

“ **I must name him after you both** ,” she said, stroking the baby’s reddish hair.  Already, it was much thicker than her own.  “ **He owes his life to you**.”

Beya carefully made her first incision.  Parmak winced not in pain, but in surprise.

“ **That is more honor than I’ve contributed** ,” Beya said matter-of-factly.

" **What about his father**?" asked Parmak.

Ramet folded his hands over his knees, eagerly trying to get lost in staring at them.  As with many other things, he tried too hard.

“ **I doubt they will meet** ,” Nadyn replied.

“ **Don’t you want them to**?” Parmak offered.

“Unsafe,” said Beya, looking sternly at Ramet. “ **Especially to carry on the family name that way**.”

“ **I’d prefer to call him** Kelas,” Nadyn continued. “ **Such a melodic name**.”

Parmak did not understand the exact detail of this, but gathered the compliment from her tone.  He would certainly consider it complimentary - to share his name with this half-Bajoran boy - not unsafe or offensive, even if anyone assumed the child was his.

“ **Thank you** ,” he answered, “ **I made it myself**.”

Beya was unsure how literal he wanted to be, but nodded along in agreement.

“Ijona **is mine** ,” she said.

“ **Melodic** ,” Nadyn repeated, lost somewhere in her medication.

Ramet coughed and Beya turned to glare at him.

She caught the little glimmer in Ramet’s eyes, and the tick of his smile.  She had seen and studied this face on Parmak for years; it was one of recognition, of undiluted Cardassian pride.

“ **You understand me** ,” she said, thickening her accent to prove her point.

“I only need th--”

“ **You’ve understood all along!** ” Beya continued. “ **Where is it?  Give it to me.** ”

Ramet leaned back and did an unconvincing job of shaking his head.

“It’s internal,” he lied.  “I only need the name of your cell, and then--”

Too soon, she pulled the needle from its third rung in Parmak’s neck.  He rubbed at the tear she’d unintentionally made, while she approached Ramet in place of an apology.  

“ **I don’t** **_care_** ,” she growled through her teeth.  “ **Where is it**?”

“I’m _trying_ to get your cell here,” the more practice Ramet got at lying, the better the results became.  “Kelas said they would come and--”

Beya took a step backward, then inhaled deeply and spoke with perfect conviction.

“Go, then, and tell the Gul.  If you’re afraid, I’ll do it myself.  Tell him my name is Beya Ijona, and I have a list of demands on behalf of the Roane Resistance Cell.”


	6. Chapter 6

Ramet lost all sense of reservation, stumbling backward and calling for his supervisor as soon as he was free of the tent.  Parmak and Beya remained inside, staring at each other over Nadyn’s cot. 

Parmak swallowed quietly, dryly, and broke their eye contact, kneeling to attend to Nadyn instead.

“You have a… list of demands?” he asked, while he tucked a clean rag beneath the baby’s chin.

“It is one demand,” Beya replied.

She knelt on the other side of the cot, buried deep in the pile of rags, and reached in to soothe the baby.

“Kelas,” she cooed at him, while his mother ruffled his hair.  Then she looked up, again, to his namesake, “ **I’ve had no contact with my cell, but I will say what I need to for our freedom**.”

“ **Scared him enough** ,” Parmak gestured to the opening of the tent, still flapping after Ramet tore through it.

“Simple,” she said, “ **too easy**.”

***

It was the Gul who entered the tent next, dramatically throwing aside both panels and rushing in with Ramet at his heels.  The sun had long since set, and the three workers had fallen into a hazy half-sleep with the baby nestled between them.

In one motion, the Gul grabbed Beya’s arm and dragged her to the ground.  Even before she was fully awake, she knew to strike and kick upward.  He laughed as he avoided her attacks, firmly taking both of her arms and fastening her wrists together with a length of rope.

Parmak had to ensure Nadyn was holding the baby tightly before he stood to intervene.  The Gul was positioning a hypospray over Beya’s arm.

“What are you--?!” Parmak began.

Ramet took in a sharp breath, pausing the Gul - who turned to see what he was missing - and Parmak - who began bracing for a fight of his own.

“He won’t listen to you,” Ramet advised.

He held Parmak’s arm but made no other motion to injure him.

“Oh, I don’t want to talk to him,” Parmak said, clenching his fists and struggling forward.  

“ **Hello, Bajoran Worker** ,” the Gul said, exclusively to annoy him.  “ **I am here to help**.”

Ramet continued quietly, leaning in to Parmak’s ear.  He did not know which side to support, anymore, and presented sterilized facts accordingly.

“Terok Nor has agreed to hear her demands.”

Beya remained quiet, temples throbbing and teeth clenched tight.

“ **Come and talk** ,” the Gul said, as he pulled her forward.

Parmak did not want them to go anywhere alone.  When Ramet was ordered to follow, Parmak felt only marginally better.  

He spent the rest of the night at Nadyn’s side, constantly alternating between calming her and the baby.  Neither of them understood what had happened.

“Beya **said you would take care of us** ,” Nadyn said, with disappointment deep enough for Parmak to drown in.

There was not a phrase available to him that could soothe her.

Hours later, Ramet returned to collect them, ignoring Parmak’s protests about Nadyn’s condition.  He reluctantly offered his arm, leading her forward while she and Parmak, together, held onto the child.  For the duration of the walk, they did not see any other workers.

They arrived at the property gate, at the furthest edge of the camp’s perimeter.  Beyond it, a Cardassian freighter hovered with its lights off, so it would not provoke attention.  Nadyn gasped and cried into Parmak’s shoulder, after Ramet shoved her away from his.  He went, instead, to meet with the Gul.

At the Gul’s signal, the ship lowered its loading ramp.  Parmak recognized the uniforms of two Cardassian orderlies, who approached him but did not address him.  One reached immediately for Beya, and she held a hypospray, too.

“No, listen to me,” Parmak swatted down the orderly’s arm, “I’m a doctor, you can’t do this.  Bajorans nurse their babies, you can’t give her a sedative, she’d--”

She slid the device into her sleeve and said, as if it had taken her hours of practice, “ **comply**.”

Ramet walked with them up the ramp and into the dark, cavernous ship.  

“She only asked that Nadyn and Kelas be taken to the Militia Clinic in the Kendra province,” Ramet said, amused.  “Unless, of course, you’d like to go in his place.”

He gestured casually to the baby, and Parmak refused to give him the satisfaction of an argument.  Often, semantics were reward enough for a well-trained Cardassian, and Parmak wanted nothing more than to shake free of the tradition.

“Are you lying to me?” he demanded, instead.

Offended, Ramet touched his chest.  

“Believe me, I have nothing to gain by doing that.  I’m even going to let you see Ms. Beyat before she leaves.”

“ **Bey-at**?” he asked, stretching the Bajoran vowels.

“A disappointing alias, I’m sure.”

They reached the other side of the ship, where Beya was restrained by the first orderly, who pressed a small scanner against her temple.  Nadyn was given the seat beside her, and tied to it in a similar fashion, while the second orderly held the baby, and, with a disgusted look on her face, wondered what to do with him.

“ **It’s okay** ,” Parmak offered, staring at the space between their shoulders.    

He did not know who he was reassuring, but it did not seem to stir either of them.  

“Beya,” he continued, “ **Nadyn will go to the doctors, but where are they taking you**?”

The orderly cupped her hand over the scanner.

“She cannot hear you,” she explained, and inclined her head politely to Ramet, her superior.  

“I can’t discuss the details,” Ramet said apologetically.

He sat down at the control console and began initiating the ship’s systems.  Around them, lights flickered into life and the air pressure stiffened until Parmak thought his eardrums would burst.  He could barely hear Ramet, even as he shouted.

“I must take her for her sentence,” he tugged Parmak down to listen, “she has committed crimes against the Obsidian Order.”

Ramet was almost out of patience with the military, and thought that this gesture, in one way or another, would improve his circumstances.  Either the Order would recognize his sacrifice and reward him, or the Gul would notice this and leverage against them.  All Ramet knew of Obsidian Order sentences was pure mystery, enough to make them terrifying.  He expected, after they were through with this Beyat woman, she would not recognize herself.

Parmak knew otherwise - he recognized himself with painful completeness, now, and there was no greater punishment available to a secretive spy agency - but there was no time for him to form a compelling proposal.  He slapped Ramet’s cheek and glared at him.

“ _So have I_!” he shouted, into the reverberating echo of the warp drive.

Then it occurred to him that Ramet was leaving.  Whether as a coward or a genius, it made no difference.  Parmak watched two incompetent medics strap monitors to the wrists of his only friends, and his only potential ally moved his fingers, torturously slowly, toward the ignition switch.  Parmak grappled for Ramet’s arm, but was thrown away.

“I need to do this,” he said definitively.  Parmak wanted to say the same.  

But then he felt the Gul’s cold, wide hand spreading over his shoulder. 

***

Beya’s attendant spent the entire journey adjusting the settings on her monitor, pulsing it against Beya’s temple and recording the changes, hoping they would be complete by the time the ship docked.  They stopped and deposited Nadyn and baby Kelas at the clinic and continued on toward Terok Nor, but Beya’s vitals did not change.

The orderly’s goal was only to prove her competence, following the Obsidian Order’s written instructions precisely.  They were prepared for rare scenarios like this one.

Beya - or Ijona Beyat, according to her native record - had failed in her assignment, and the Order would not recognize their own share of the blame.  It had been clear in her training, even before her surgeries and memory therapies, that she needed to share her affiliation in the event of capture.  There was a code assigned to her, to spark fear in her captors and pause her punishment until her transgressions could be reviewed by the Order themselves.  Often, they chose to let the military carry out the failure’s intended sentence, but they needed the choice to be theirs.  Not the individual agent’s.  Beya had taken their power from them, but she had not even done it on purpose.

“What is your personnel code number?” the orderly posed the question between each surge from the monitor on Beya’s head.

“ **Code**?” she said, pointedly.  She wanted to give the impression of confidence, but the pain made her twitch, and she shook her head in reluctant surrender, “I don’t know a code.”

The intensity was increased and the question was repeated; the orderly remained solemn and Beya’s lip quivered.  She kept looking at the empty seat beside her, and the cuffs that dangled over the armrest.

“Why did you do what I asked?” Beya was willing to stoop to whatever pathetic level would provide her with power.  If they would listen, she would sob.

“We can’t discuss that, Ms. Beyat, until you provide us your code,” Ramet said, swiveling in the control seat. “This is a somewhat dangerous situation for all of us.”

Ramet, and the orderly, did not have any other details to share.  Only minimal instructions for re-surfacing Beya’s memories.  They had no reason to believe this was impossible; they did not know Beya’s precise affiliation, and it was unheard of for the Order to make mistakes in their undercover assignments.

There was no reason for them to suspect that - under layers of fabricated skin and deepening pools of memory - _Beyat_ was Cardassian.

No reasons remained for Beya to suspect this, either.  She could not surface any recollection of an assignment code, nor of a life anywhere but on Bajor.  Her therapy had been thorough and complete, conducted early in the clinical testing stages, and it had failed.

It would be considered a failure in any case.  As it stood, she had fallen completely under the spell of it, charmed by Bajoran histories and told they were hers, unable to return to the side that sent her to work.  Or, from the Order’s perspective, she had been captured, tortured, and given up their strategy to a planet full of Bajorans.  Her indiscretion would have much larger consequences.

“ **Your code**?” Ramet appealed to her.

“I told you my cell,” Beya replied, genuinely confused.

The orderly lowered the incoming dosage of stimulants until Beya’s thoughts seemed clearer.  

“I gave you their name and my demands, why are you still holding me?”

“Please, it would be best for all of us if you complied _before_ our arrival at Terok Nor,” Ramet said curtly. “There is nothing left for you to hold out for, and Gul Dukat will have the same questions.”

***

Parmak did not learn what happened to Beya.  Not at that point.  

He and the Gul watched the ship depart, and he bit back all of his arguments.  Each time he opened his mouth and prepared to speak, the Gul turned to look at him, and held up his hand.  Parmak did not want to endure any sort of contact with him, so he remained quiet and still to the best of his ability.

Desperately, he wondered why the Order was concerned with her and what she possibly could have done to threaten them into sudden action.  They must have had so much more in common, but he feared they would never get another chance to discuss it.

“ **You sleep in the cells tonight** ,” the Gul said.

He gestured to the disused row of boxes that lined the opposing perimeter fence.  The rest of the workers were inside already, leaving the camp apparently deserted.  Parmak was shoved into the first one they arrived at, and the Gul immediately sealed the door behind him.  Several others were inside, and they rushed out of Parmak’s way as he fell.

“ **Tomorrow will be** …” the Gul paused and skimmed his internal lexicon, “ **celebratory**.”

Parmak waited until he could no longer hear the Gul’s retreating footsteps, slow and heavy and completely carefree, before turning to inspect his cellmates.  He spent the night tending to mild bruises and abrasions, the results of their fight against being incarcerated.

“ **I’m proud** ,” he said, dabbing the blood from one man’s lip. “ **The same again tomorrow**.”

Between them, with only a few common words to rely on, they could not piece together the Gul’s meaning.  It was decided that ‘ **celebratory** ’ was almost certainly sarcastic, but that was the extent of their progress.

When the Gul returned, the sun was pounding against the cell wall, reaching in effortlessly between the bars, and scorching them where they stood.  The Gul released them and they crowded together behind the offending wall, too desperate for comfort to resist him.  He knew this, and presented Parmak with a vat of water, setting it down gently as if the motion was not difficult or strenuous.  Parmak knew he could not lift it alone, and did not even try.  He waited for the Gul to meet his eyes, instead, no matter how it pained him.

“ **Move this to the mine** ,” the Gul said.  

With the help of three others, Parmak was able to drag the vat.  They could not lift it, and Parmak advised them against trying, afraid of them overexerting themselves.  He did not expect the Gul to let him intervene, or to be anywhere near his med-kit again.

When they arrived at the mouth of the mine, the Gul held up his hand and spoke again.  One of the workers had reached to secure his protective scarf around his face, but the Gul dismissed him.

“ **Not necessary** ,” then he gestured to the vat, which the workers had moved carefully, ensuring not even a drop crept up through the lid.  “ **Pour it out**.”

A female worker brought herself to tears, and slapped her hands down over the lid when Parmak obediently reached for it.

“ **You side with him**?” she demanded, “ **How could you**?”

The Gul smiled, satisfied with proceedings, and repeated his command.  He added ‘ **very good** ’ to the end but still did not address Parmak by name.  Parmak hated the ambiguity as much as he hated the order; he knew he had to suffer both.

He shook his head and one of the men, who had helped him drag the vat along, took the woman’s shoulders and led her away from the scene.  Parmak and his two remaining helpers removed the lid and, with some effort, tipped the vat onto its side.  They watched in deep and malnourished disappointment as the water splashed and cascaded down the tunnel.

When this was finished, the Gul stepped forward to inspect the product.  He deemed the vat too wet, still, and swiped his hand around it to persuade the remaining droplets to leave it.  Then he dragged Parmak forward and wiped his wet hand down Parmak’s shirt, in disgust.  Parmak’s expression was exactly the same.

“ **Don’t** **_touch_ ** **me** ,” Parmak spat at him, but the Gul only laughed.

“Believe me, you will miss it soon.”

The Gul hated to break into their native language, but the idea of making Parmak appear to be his ally appealed to him.  He knew he could safely leave the site and return to it, which would make his objectives for the day much quicker to accomplish.  

“ **Enter** ,” he ordered, pointing into the mine.  

The workers shuddered and obliged, still pulling their scarves on despite the Gul’s protests.  It did not matter.  He shoved Parmak down last, and then he left.

The inside of the mine was dark and newly unstable, slippery with mud.  The walls had never been given reinforcements, as they were built by and for completely expendable workers on a strict schedule.  Now, when any of them grasped desperately at the wall, the dirt crumbled against their knuckles.  Parmak could see the proceedings much better than any of the Bajorans could, and he warned them not to make any drastic movements.

“ **He told you to say that**?” the same woman demanded, “Gul Taryx **, is that what he told you**?”

Parmak was not surprised to hear the Gul’s name after his years of service.  He did not recognize it, but the Gul kept it from him anyway, to minimize his risks.  Among Bajorans, though, the goal was to watch it become legendary, burning through them like a fire.  Taryx.  It would leave nothing in its wake but fear; it would be all the survivors talked about for the rest of their lives.  He could think of no greater achievement.  Parmak suddenly felt sick.

“ **No** , **I’ve never work with him** ,” Parmak insisted, but he still struggled with his tenses, and none of his companions were convinced.

One slipped forward, trying to reach his throat.  Another intervened, somewhat reluctantly, and conceded that Parmak was right about the danger in shaking the walls.  Parmak bowed at this and took a step backward.

“ **Then how long will we stay here**?   **Are we waiting here to die**?” the woman began again.

Parmak blinked slowly, and tears formed in the corners of his eyes.  This was a reasonable theory, and he felt uncomfortable disputing it.  He did not believe in offering false hope, not even in medicine.  And now it was too late for him to provide any optimism at all. 

“ **Maybe-yes** ,” he admitted quietly.

They stood huddled together, chins pressed into their chests, keeping their backs against the ceiling to support it.  On the surface above them, they could feel the shifting of heavy machinery.

“ **It is my fault** ,” Parmak continued, after taking enough time to be confident in his phrasing, “ **I** .... **I know too much, that is the only answer**.   **This is to punish me** , **I am greatly sorry**.”

The water seeped into the ground, and they could not lower themselves to drink it.  This was how the night passed.

Parmak offered to tell a story, one Beya had told him for the purpose of expanding his vocabulary, but he was urged to save his strength.  The Bajorans felt for him, after all, and after standing for twelve hours with her back hunched and her shoulder digging into his, so did the original woman.  

“ **He could’ve very easily killed you alone** ,” she said.  

At first, Parmak thought she felt inconvenienced by being stuck here with him, like she was written as an afterthought onto his death sentence.  But it was a little blend of Bajoran beliefs - there was strength in numbers and respect in dying among friends.  She did not know how to tell him, but she nudged his arm and hoped for the best.

Another day passed this way, with all of them standing and panting.  The water soaked into their boots and descended from there into the sand, helping nothing.  Completely wasted.

And then, suddenly, they heard more water.  They thought it was a hallucination at first, a dream for the thing they all craved most desperately, until they felt it over their backs.  The sand stuck to them.

Gul Taryx stood at the mine’s entrance, and poured five more vats of water down into it.

“ **I expected you would be thirsty** ,” he said.  

Parmak bolted up, overcome by his anger, and he felt the wall shift in his absence.  The packed sand, the flecks of water, the clumps of hair accumulated from years’ worth of underfed workers, all began to fall around him.

“Why?” Parmak demanded.  

His instincts forced him to move to the back of the line, and he shoved the Bajorans forward.  They stumbled over each other, allowing the strongest to climb out first so they could help the rest.  Parmak felt the ceiling collapsing over him, pressing hard over the thick scales that lined his back.  He thought it would have killed a Bajoran instantly, and he resigned himself to a more gradual death until he felt his friends reaching for him, pulling him forward.

Gul Taryx was following orders of his own, and was not in the most pleasant of moods.  Gul Dukat had informed him about potential Federation involvement, after one of their diplomatic teams offered a sympathetic ear and a guiding hand to Bajor.  All that was left to do now was ensure there was nothing of value to hand back to them.

Not ore, not crops, not water.

“I am not to go home empty-handed,” he said, right against Parmak’s ear.

Parmak shoved him away, struggled to stand, and asked each Bajoran, in turn, if they had been injured.  Even without his kit, he was confident he could tie off any open cuts and reset misaligned joints.

This did not improve Gul Taryx’s mood.

“You _still_ think you’re a Cardassian scientist?”

Parmak ignored him and tightened a volunteered breathing scarf over a woman’s injured wrist.

“Three years, and you continue living beneath the sky of this delusion?” scolded Taryx, “You are a **Bajoran worker**.”

He grabbed the cuff of Parmak’s sleeve and dragged him away.  

“Perhaps it does not make a difference,” Taryx drawled, “I treat them the same way.”

***

Because Parmak could not see the sun, he could not count the days.  The constant darkness of the Gul’s quarters also made it difficult for him to regulate his body temperature, and from that he lost sleep and partial sanity.

For example, it took him much too long to recall the Cardassian standard of attraction was defined by arguments and resistance.  When he yelled at Taryx and used all of his strength to shove him away, the advances continued undisturbed.  The only behavior he continued was biting Taryx’s hand when he reached for his hair.  Otherwise, Parmak learned to sit quietly and brood, until Taryx lost interest and did not disturb him.  But no move was made to release him from confinement, either.

Taryx led his workers outside of the property gates under careful surveillance and ordered them to burn crops and pollute soil.  He did not want Parmak to interfere; even though the man was desperate and perpetually exhausted, he knew how to talk to the others.  Taryx hated to see the original sentence of shame being turned against him.  So he kept Parmak inside and in the dark.  While Taryx was away, Parmak heard shouting and screaming from overhead.  He could not sleep through them, but it was the only option that appealed to him as a means of feeling less guilty.  It was not as if he could intervene, either, even when he clearly heard a woman’s voice wailing for ‘ **the other Cardassian**.’

Parmak knew the rations the Gul brought him were often laced with sedatives, but he eventually surrendered to eating them and hoped he would not wake up the next morning.  When he did, he was sore and restrained against the wall, and Taryx was already gone.

He could not reach to wipe the trail of foam that ran from his mouth down over his shirt.  There was nothing else to do, so he remained as still as possible.  Taryx had always returned to him at the end of shift; he would wait.  Falling asleep was as unfortunate as it was inevitable.  His desires were not constant, anymore, but murky like cocktail of the medicine he was given.  

Parmak awoke with the Gul standing half-a-step behind him, and offset to one side.  His hands slithered around Parmak’s arm and brought it backward, until Parmak felt the cold release of a hypospray against his skin.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself, Parmak,” Taryx said, "You've..." 

Parmak was surprised enough at hearing his name, but then he felt the strength of the dose - it was always much too high - and he slumped forward before the Gul finished his speech.


	7. Chapter 7

After an indeterminate length of time, Parmak awoke on the crowded bench of a transport ship.  He realized, as he tried again to wipe his face, that his hands were still bound.  The passengers on either side of him turned to watch, like he was the most amusing display they had seen in years.  Judging from the rank markings on their armor, Parmak expected this to be true.  He did not know why he was on a ship between two Legates, and saw no potential for understanding.  His head hurt beyond usefulness, and he was clearly still a prisoner. 

He waited as long as he could to speak, requesting water and nothing else, but he was immediately interrupted by the legate to his right, who refused to allow anything out of place.

“Is th--?”

“You’ve been reassigned,” the Legate said.

Parmak never thought he was on an ‘assignment’ to begin with.  He leaned back in his seat, folding his neck against the top of the headrest and refusing to speak.

“There is a new Military Hospital in the Paldar Sector,” the same Legate continued.

Parmak knew better than to request details from his current position, but then the second Legate leaned in and uncuffed his hands.  He was offered water and a box that bore his name, his title, and the description of the clothing inside, for export purposes.  He gave a passing, apologetic thought to the empty box he’d left behind at the camp.  Empty, except for his hair.

“A new Military _Hospital_?” Parmak echoed.  It was not rude to request repetition; they would rightfully assume he was ill.

The Legate sighed and distanced himself as much as he could from Parmak, but the bench was relatively small.  He explained, from the higher status of the opposing armrest, that the Occupation had ended, and everyone was returning from war at one time.  Cardassia was not equipped for triage of this magnitude.  This was an opinion Parmak had held for most of his life, but he did not feel any satisfaction in being proven right.

“What about the Bajorans?” he asked, with too much hope for the Legate to take him seriously.  The first did not even answer, so he waited for the second.  

“You are assigned to our Military; they no longer concern you.”

The Bajorans were ultimately successful in securing a treaty with the Federation because they were able to establish a more effective temporary government than Cardassia currently possessed.  The Obsidian Order had held peace talks with the Federation several years prior, and were unable to revisit them before the agreement with the Bajorans was made.  They were occupied with one operative in particular, who became increasingly resistant to their attempts to resurface her memories.  Where a young Elim Garak had fueled the original Federation treaty, Beyat Ijona lit what remained of it on fire.

Parmak still thought of her often, and would do his best to find her when it was safe to do so.  Now, he sipped his water and changed into his new uniform as directed, just before landing in the city.  

“You are not to discuss the circumstances of your patients’ conditions,” the second Legate added.

Again, this level of detail existed above Parmak’s reluctantly-agreed-to assignment.  He did not see a problem with caring for those who needed it, but knew better than to share his opinion.

“You are expected to look…” the first Legate returned to the conversation and gestured hesitantly at Parmak’s hair, “presentable and fit for work.”

Parmak wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his old uniform before depositing it into his box.  He twisted the longest strands of his hair into simple braids and tucked them behind his ear while both men watched him.  He stared at the floor to convey he was finished.  There was still sand against his skin, grinding its way into his ridges and reminding him of his mistakes, like salt in an open wound.

“This assignment is indefinite,” the first Legate said, when they landed.

Parmak allowed them to escort him out of the ship, one standing on each side, until he was marched into the depths of the disorientingly bright new clinic and left there.  

Once he was alone, Parmak quietly said, “ **so was my last**.”

***

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what you or any of the others _did_ ,” Bashir said.

It had been over a week since he last looked at the casualty list, and he remained just as persistent as the moment Garak first allowed him to read it.  Garak was learning, slowly, not to be annoyed with the young man’s passion.  As long as it was directed at anyone else.

“That would be correct,” Garak replied.

Bashir sighed and took the seat across from him, inspecting the choice of meal Garak had made for him.  He was running late with a patient, but Garak would not accept his offers to cancel - he had sounded somewhat depressed - so Garak designed his meal for him.  Then he picked it up from the replicator and set it down as he saw Bashir approaching, so it would still be pleasantly warm.  It was altogether too thoughtful for Bashir feel comfortable with.  He wanted to discuss the list and Garak was, despite appearances, looking forward to indulging him.

“Did you know, Doctor, that you were the first human I’d ever met?”

Bashir was correct in thinking this was untrue, but it sounded complimentary enough for him to let it slide, setting his head in his hand and leaning over his tray.

“I don’t recall you mentioning that,” he swirled his spoon around on his plate, collecting Bajoran _teredi rice_ and Vulcan lentils with basil.  

Garak knew and blended his tastes very well; he couldn’t help but smile.  Which only made things easier for Garak.

“ _And_ the first Starfleet officer.  I saw them arrive, of course, but you were the first I wanted to introduce myself to.”

Bashir nodded to acknowledge Garak’s overbearing charm, hoping this might prevent him from falling into it.  

“Really,” he said, in a flat voice.

“Aren’t you even the _slightest_ bit flattered, Doctor?”

Bashir found he could accept this, if he disguised it as praise for his welcoming and professional demeanor.  Of course, Garak must have thought him trustworthy, or at least valuable in some other way, and gathered the courage to approach him.  Bashir swallowed a spoonful of rice before deciding to say, “yes.”

“You must understand, it was difficult for me to approach the Federation at all.”

Garak had hoped they would be able to revise the terms of his sentence, but his ties to the aging peace talks existed under a disowned alias.  Beyond that, he had no strong feelings about Bajoran involvement and knew he was safer on one of their stations than he was at home.  Especially since the Federation was there, trying to remain neutral and protective toward everyone.  He loved that strategy and he thrived on it, and Bashir was the best personification of it he’d found to date.

“I would understand that better if I knew _why_ you were here to begin with,” Bashir insisted.

Garak made a tutting sound with his tongue.  

“As would I, Doctor.  But - as you yourself are so fond of saying - you don’t need to be aware of circumstances in order to _care_ , do you?”

***

Ramet’s final act as a commissioned Glinn was to write Parmak a passive-aggressive letter of commendation.  He submitted this to every medical facility on Cardassia before the Obsidian Order contracted his services full time.

Parmak blinked hard against the lights in the staffroom.  They were artificial, of course, and a different shade than he adjusted to on Bajor.  He struggled to read the metallic writing on the row of lockboxes, and decided, after several attempts, that he did not have one.  He found packs of water in the base of the replicator, for emergencies, and finished half of one.

When he heard the door behind him swishing open, he zipped the packet shut and set it down, freezing suddenly as if he had been caught committing a crime.

A woman in a lab coat walked in and set down her case beside Parmak’s water, rolling her eyes at it until he slid it out of her way.  She swiped one hand over her hair - easily as long as Parmak’s, but restrained in a single, serpentining braid at the top of her head - before reaching inside the case for a pair of gloves.  These were, for the most part, transparent.  The fingertips were reinforced with padded sensors, and the opening was lined with a metallic band.  

She tightened the clamp around her wrist, sealing her hand inside the shimmering glove, before reaching to shake Parmak’s hand. 

“Doctor Herin,” she said authoritatively. “And you are Doctor Parmak?”

“That’s right.  Kelas is fine.”

“It isn’t here,” she said.

She dropped his hand and turned to face the patient chart on the wall.

“I will be your supervisor.  Your first appointment is in the trauma wing at 0930, Doctor Parmak.”

He had no concept of the current time, and felt almost guilty for asking.  The computer system informed him, in a voice only slightly colder than Herin’s, that it was 0917.  

“You will find self-sterilizing gloves in your lockbox,” Herin continued. “We have reports of Kalla-Nohra syndrome and several Bajoran viruses of unknown origin which you will _not_ want to contract.”

“I didn’t see my name,” Parmak said, cutting a line across the boxes with his finger.  

“Strange.  When were you given your assignment?”

“As soon as the position opened,” Parmak returned reluctantly to evasiveness. “Trauma wing, you said?”

Herin nodded.

Collecting his half-full bag of water in hand, Parmak left.  He did not finish drinking it, however.  He apologized to Herin, turning over his shoulder as he opened the door, and dropped it into the reclamation bin.  She did not reply, in any capacity.

***

“Well of course I’d say that, Garak,” Bashir continued, “I’m a _doctor_.”

“Are you?  I hadn’t noticed!”

“ _Garak_.”

Bashir had finished his meal already, and was waiting with ever-diminishing patience for Garak to finish his.

“I expected, when I first saw your title, that ‘Julian’ was a female name,” Garak said, truthfully.

He drew the name out into something soft and foreign, and Bashir stared back at him, entranced.

“Were you… you weren’t trying to read it in English, were you?  That’s just how it sounds with your consonants?”

Garak _had_ been reading it in English, but would not give Bashir the satisfaction.  

“Oh, it’s just that one would struggle to find a male physician on Cardassia, and I had no knowledge of the Federation to compare this to.”

Garak had, in fact, only met a single male doctor, and doubted he was any good at his craft.  

“I was _genuinely_ expecting you to be a woman,” Garak said.  

“Hmm,” Bashir leaned forward, pleased with himself as he always was when he proved Garak wrong.  

Garak did not like to leave him this way for too long.  It could be dangerous.  

“So imagine my disappointment when instead--”

“You don’t mean _that_.”

“Maybe not, Doctor.  You’ve become a most valuable and unique companion.  Think, the first human _and_ the first male doctor I encountered in my life.”

Bashir spared them both another rendition of ‘I don’t believe you’ and tried to deconstruct the finished puzzle Garak presented him with.  Cardassians could be backward, he thought.

“It was the opposite on Earth for hundreds of years,” he talked himself through his solution, “but my class was split fairly evenly.  Among humans, I mean.  Of course there were other species without equivalent genders.  Or roles, or expectations.”

“That’s very insightful, Doctor.  The expectation, as you say, is that men lack the focus and finesse required from a scientist of any discipline.”

“Well,” said Bashir, expectantly, “that’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?  First of all, there’s no way that’s _true_!”

“Doctor!  I would _never_ dismiss the very _core_ of your culture as ‘ridiculous.’”

“You would, Garak.  You do it all the time,” he muttered.  “Honestly, you’re saying… that everyone just believes that?  What about you?  What about all that _focus_ that goes into your work, whatever job it is you’re doing?”

He first pictured Garak sewing and tugging errant threads from their seams, then thought, more romantically, of him working somewhere undercover.  What was more important than detail and delicacy at a time like that, when a single breath might give you away to the enemy?

Garak smirked at him, and took a slow bite of his meal.  Bashir tapped his fingers on the tabletop and waited, but Garak was several steps ahead, fully prepared to set a fire in Bashir’s eyes.  Carefully, he built his sentence as kindling, and dropped the spark at the last possible moment, shielding it with his hand.  

“Of course,” Garak began again, “there are some disciplines which utilize both skillsets.  Field medics, for example, and archons, and artists.  And intelligence agents.”

The glow was there, spreading all through the doctor’s face.  It warmed him and consoled him, like he was huddled in front of it during the dead of winter.  

“That’s it,” Bashir said confidently, gesturing forward.  “Or part of it, at least.  You didn’t quite ‘line up’ one way or the other, so you were sent away?”

***

Parmak’s first appointment involved a Coleibric Hemorrhage, and he had to remind himself - internally and almost constantly - not to ask for any details.  He was thankful he had arrived several minutes ahead of schedule, and would find a way to critique the appointment system later.  Who was put on a waiting list for a serious hemorrhage?

An unimportant and non-commissioned soldier, as it turned out.  Parmak kept thinking this was just a child, as he removed the pillow from the stretcher and lowered the boy’s head gently until he was lying flat.  He did not speak for much of the procedure because he was unable to, and Parmak was thankful; silence kept both of them much safer.  The boy had lost so much of his strength already, and he shook and sweated on the table while Parmak prepared an IV in one hand and scrolled through his scanner with the other.  He was not looking at the screen, so he could focus on finding a vein in the boy’s blood-starved body, but it beeped when it had settled on a treatment.  

He read the recommendations and dismissed those he knew would not work - the council allowed a much higher margin for error than he did - and set to work replicating the boy’s blood while the scanner did basic fusing of the damaged organs.   

Herin came by later, when the boy was sleeping comfortably and looking much less pale, to describe Parmak’s work as ‘impressive.’  She added that she would now need to ‘genuinely read through his file’ and he was not sure how to feel about that, any of it.

“Well, I’ve had to be impressive to be noticed at all,” he explained.  “If I’m not noticed, I’m dismissed.”

The extent of Herin’s praise was breaking for an uncomfortable meal with him, assigning him three more traumatic injury cases, and reading all she could find of his file.  Ramet had recently rewritten it, delighting in removing the modifications made by a disgraced ex-operative, the last who had contact with Parmak before his sentence was settled.  

When the day was done, and Parmak had followed Herin’s agonizing example of engaging silently with all of his patients, she showed him to the workers’ quarters.

A lockbox had been newly installed there, bearing his surname.  This was bolted to his bed, which was one of many bunks in the crowded room.  Part of him expected to find his lock of hair inside, not the gloves that Herin recommended he wear at all times.  

“What, to bed?” he was incredulous, and tried them on but did not seal them.

“You don’t know who was assigned that bed last,” she said.

He stood up from the mattress immediately, until Herin, in the same humorless tone, explained that she did not know either.  

“But it’s best to be cautious,” she concluded.

“He... his bleeding was _internal_ ,” Parmak argued, regarding his first patient. “Wouldn’t you rather feel a reassuring hand than a cold glove?”

Herin waited a moment, trying to determine whether or not her new associate was trying to be _funny_.

“I would strongly prefer the glove,” she said, at last. “It’s for the safety of both parties, not the _comfort_ of either one.  Reassurance _is_ safety, Doctor Parmak.  It is not comfort.”

Parmak apologized - in Bajoran first, by accident - and tried to fall asleep.  Herin decided, as soon as she noticed his eyes were shut, that he had spent much longer than the reported three years as a field medic, where desperation outplayed simple hygiene at every turn.  It would be best for the entire sector, really, if he spent a few shifts in the Dispensary where he could not touch anyone.

***

The Dispensary was, in several unsettling ways, very much like Gul Taryx’s quarters.  Parmak spent his time alone, dizzy and nauseous from fumes, and sealed behind a sterile glass partition.  But, instead of dark and humid, this room was bright and freezing cold.  Parmak felt the air grating against his throat, and he had to convince himself to inhale each time the compulsion came to him.

After spending the morning sorting through prescriptions and wishing he was back in the trauma wing, a man came in and spoke to Parmak directly.

He was only slightly older than Parmak, which Parmak found reassuring.  Up to that point, everyone he saw was drastically younger.  Even Herin graduated from a class an entire decade behind his own.

The man came in and sat quietly in the chair across from Parmak’s counter, coughing into his arm to politely draw Parmak’s attention.

“Yes, I’m sorry.  What can I help you with?”

“There’s no need for formality, Nurse--” he caught sight of Parmak’s badge, “Doctor, I’m sorry.”

“Parmak,” he replied, helpfully.

“Hmm.  I’m here for a prescription, I’ve had them transferred to this location; I’m told it’s stocked much better than the triage tents are.”

“What is the name, please?”

Parmak glanced at his computer screen.  He prepared to type as early as possible, as he was three-years-out-of-practice and very slowly adjusting to the new systems.

“There are two capsules, and also a dermal regenerative.”

This was not backward, but certainly sideways.  Parmak repeated himself, speaking quietly in case the man might be embarrassed.  Either by his name or his prescription, or both.  The surveillance system would still record him, but he could at least feel better about himself for a moment.

“It should be under Marritza.”

Really, Parmak did not need the name at all.  It only made the search easier - it would be confirmed with the patient’s thumbprint, regardless - and gave him a seemingly legitimate way to fill the silence.  He did not like the silence, not at all, and as long as Herin was not breathing over his shoulder, he would not succumb to it.  

Marritza watched, feeling uneasy with the acceptance.

“I don’t, perhaps, look like someone else to you, Doctor?”

“I’m sorry, no,” Parmak admitted.  Perhaps this was someone important, but Parmak had never seen a militant out of their armor before.

Troubled, Marritza ran his fingers harshly through his hair, then set his chin in his hand, deep in thought.

“There’s no need to be modest on _my_ account, Doctor.  You may have heard of me, don’t let the name deter you.”

Parmak cleared his throat and ducked into the glow of his computer screen, pretending he hadn’t heard anything.  Not a word.  Herin’s advice was beginning to seem more and more sane, almost necessary.

“You aren’t at _all_ worried I might be giving a false name?” Marritza led, leaning on the counter.

This struck a chord within Parmak, one he did not know how to harmonize with.  He shifted away from the screen and indicated the handprint scanner, installed on the tabletop on the patient’s side of the partition.

“If _that_ accepts you,” Parmak decided, “I will call you whatever name you prefer.”

Names were a valuable cultural currency on Cardassia, with false ones generally only being given to those who needed them for their work.  Primarily, these were undercover operatives, who happily had their old names erased each time a new assignment was adopted.  Parmak had changed his for a similar reason, but had done so himself; this was a privilege both previously unheard of, and currently unspoken.  So why was this man trying to force an uncomfortable commonality on him?  No, it must have been coincidence.  

“That is,” Marritza struggled with what to call this moment, “very polite of you.  A consideration I lost years ago.”

Parmak nodded in acceptance, and was relieved when the screen returned his query for the location of Marritza’s prescriptions.  Immediately, he left to retrieve them, ducking away from Marritza’s gaze as he did so.

Marritza had already placed his hand in the scanning tray by the time Parmak returned, setting the three bottles clumsily on the table before lining them up on the opposing scanner.  It was like a mechanical balance scale, except that it compared medicinal components to genetic needs, instead of stones to feathers.  When it changed its glow from grey to a deep green, Parmak removed the bottles and packaged them in a plain, discreet bag for Marritza’s convenience.  Clearly the topic gave him some trouble, and if Parmak could not discuss it, he could at least delay the discomfort.  He admitted to himself that it was a little strange and unfortunate, that a man only slightly older than himself needed facial reinforcement of any kind, but that was as much depth as he gave to studying the prescriptions.  Silence and privacy went well together; he hoped Herin would be more than tolerably impressed.  Marritza certainly was.  

With a little sigh that caught at the back of Marritza’s mouth, he slung the bag over his arm and turned to take a final look at Parmak.

“I do not believe you were a field medic,” Marritza said.  “You come off as much gentler than your records suggest.”

Parmak’s lips parted, just slightly, while he waited for an answer to occur to him.

“I wasn’t,” he replied, impatiently. “And what are you doing with my records?”

“The same I do with anyone’s,” Marritza recited, studying the security recorder overhead.  He reacted by lowering his voice, and leaning close against the glass.  It was enough to mark the interaction as suspicious, regardless of whether or not the recording could distinguish his words, but at least the captured image of him would be blurred by the glass.  “I feel you and I have a lot to discuss.”

“I’m sure,” Parmak said, hesitantly.

“Dinner.  I will send my attendant to receive you.”

Parmak wished he had exercised the foresight of remaining silent.  


	8. Chapter 8

Parmak did not know what kind of excuse to give to Herin when he left that evening, so he gave none.  Marritza’s housekeeper came to collect him as promised, waiting until after it was dark and the moons began to rise, creeping up from their opposing points on the horizon.  They were aligned overhead when they reached Marritza’s house, creating such a stark and beautiful image that Parmak thought the time was arranged on purpose.

The attendant had not said anything to Parmak since she met him, and even then, she only said the name of her employer.  Parmak had to ask for her name, so he would know how to address her politely.  It was ‘Kepern’ but no need arose for him to use it.  Fine, he thought.  He was accustomed to silence.

They stepped off the public transport together, with Parmak uncomfortably accepting the lead.  He hoped they would not pass Tain’s house; his memory of the path was not complete, but he felt better when he did not see anything familiar.  Wishful compulsion managed to stop him at the correct address, because Kepern would not.

Marritza’s house was massive, even from the distance afforded by its front garden.  After scanning her handprint, Kepern opened the imposing metal gate and admitted Parmak.  As he walked on the meticulously paved path toward the front door, he was greeted by a pair of riding hounds, each as tall as his shoulder.  Parmak sank into himself and quickened his pace.

In the open doorway, Marritza stood and recalled the hounds, much to Parmak’s relief.

“It’s alright, Doctor,” he assured, “they’d never bite.”

The scene was fantastical, and only clicked into reality when Parmak sat down at the dining table, matching the moment unintentionally with the one that defined his past.

Like the interrogator, Marritza leaned on the chair across from Parmak, who suddenly felt he would not be leaving until he made some kind of false confession.  Not just any lie, but one that was carefully constructed to fit the individual requesting it.  

When he came to collect his prescriptions, Marritza had not seemed hostile.  Perhaps a little paranoid, but Parmak could understand _that_.  Surely he had nothing to fear from an uneasy older man who needed so much reconstructive surgery.  With this thought, Parmak suddenly saw it as fantasy again.  To relax him further, Marritza sat down, his joints creaking along with the surface of the seat under his weight.

“What did you… sorry, what did you want to discuss with me?” Parmak began, as he watched Kepern open every single cabinet in the kitchen.  He had never had a housekeeper at home as a child - Tain’s was the first he had met - but this still seemed odd.

With a sigh, Marritza folded his hands on the table.  Reflexively, Parmak shifted back and had to calm himself when Marritza opened his mouth to speak.

“I believe we are some of the only people on the planet feeling this way,” Marritza replied, just vaguely enough to keep Parmak on edge.  “From what I have read, I believe we can trust each other.  And that we _should_.  It is imperative; time is short.”

Kepern dug through the cabinets, stacking some ingredients from each one before shutting them.  She pooled her collection on the preparation counter in the center of the room, and Parmak thought this was way too much food for two, even three, people.  The richness and overabundance of it almost made him feel sick, and he did not even know what she was making, yet.

Swallowing hard, Parmak asked for a glass of water, which Kepern immediately provided along with an apology.  She set to replicating tea before cooking their meal, knowing instinctively that Parmak’s stomach was unsettled.  This was something she learned from Marritza when he returned from his own camp several years prior, always sick and silent.  Parmak was the first person he was looking forward to talking to, after years of celebratory ceremonies and sitting on the wrong side of tribunals, and Kepern was doing everything in her power to bring her master’s happiness to fruition.

“I’m afraid I must ask for your help, Doctor,” Marritza said delicately. “But I can offer mine in exchange, if you feel it would benefit you.”

Kepern set down their tea-tray before returning to the kitchen, remaining out of sight behind the cabinet doors.  Parmak barely waited for his cup to cool before drinking from it; Red Leaf Tea could cure nearly anything, if applied at the right temperature.  For nausea, it had to be as hot as possible.

While Parmak drank, Marritza kept a respectful distance, but he could not keep quiet.

“I have spent too many years waiting for change to come on its own,” Marritza prefaced.  “Doing _nothing_.  Now, Doctor, I do _everything_.  I do not miss a single opportunity for lack of trying.”

Parmak thought he was beginning to understand, when Kepern arrived to serve them the first of many potential courses.  It was a quick dish to prepare - stiff-fried regova egg nested in a cold melon, sliced in half - so she could return to work in the kitchen.

Marritza seasoned his, slicing into the egg while it was still warm enough to be runny in the center, while Parmak watched and tried to decide if he was hungry.  It did _look_ tempting.  He could not remember the last time he’d eaten _real_ food, especially native to his tastes.

“I make a point to flag searches of records with recent changes,” Marritza proceeded, “and when yours came up, I knew I could not ignore it.”

“How are you--?” Parmak coughed a little and took a slower sip of his tea.

Marritza flashed his palm across the table, calming and authoritative at once.  He had no intention of making Parmak discuss any details that would bring discomfort.

“I was at a camp, too.  I rewrote _thousands_ of prisoners’ records, and then the whole of history, by doing nothing in response.”

Parmak’s throat tightened.

“You’re an intelligence agent?”

“In the loosest possible sense.”

The discipline had a broad definition on Cardassia, covering a variety of respectable but ultimately suspicious positions.  In any case, Parmak never expected to speak to a State employee face-to-face like this - calmly, quietly, civilly, and over a cup of tea.  Not a mislabelled syringe in sight, not a camera nor an equally unrelenting pair of eyes, not a canvas sack or a set of shears...

Gradually, Parmak’s feeling of sickness subsided.  He took the plate he was offered and ate from it with only minimal caution.  

“Tell me how to help,” he said, and Marritza smiled, all too happy to share his plan.

“I will need you to connect me to some reliable Bajorans.  In return, I will leave you with any record you like, anything from the whole of the Occupation.”

***

Generally, after their meals together, Garak returned home with a sense of refreshment, in the form of reading recommendations, good discussion, and new perspectives he was very much looking forward to ignoring until they became useful to him.

On this occasion, however, he was caught on an outdated idea.  He was thinking about how he introduced himself to Doctor Bashir, after muddling through the English records - it was much easier than the other languages Garak knew, and he insisted on teaching himself - without finding a single picture of him.  But there was no question, no hesitance anywhere in his mind when the day came, that he approached the correct human, the correct doctor.  

It was a separately perceived sense altogether; Bashir appealed to Garak in his enthusiasm, his inexperience, his willingness to help solve problems he did not fully understand.  Over time, this turned into hesitance, expertise, and the refusal to learn lessons he saw no positive point to - all of which were qualities Garak found even more intriguing.

Bashir once described their meetings, after he ran out of other excuses, as being ‘seduced by an enemy spy.’

“Doctor, I’m surprised at you!” Garak had immediately replied.  He was not surprised, but charmed by the obviousness of Bashir’s overdue accusation. “Are you casting me as the _enemy_ to your hero?”

Even after this, the overall nature of their mealtime meetings did not change.  They still sat across from each other and considered each other as opposites, even if they acknowledged their own personal development and change.  However, they were more similar than either liked to admit.  Garak borrowed more and more Federation viewpoints, even if he did bend them, and Bashir picked up Garak’s lessons with increasing frequency and dexterity.

Garak only recognized this after they passed the halfway point, like they were walking forward from their respective walls and meeting in the middle of a room.  It was an exchange, perhaps of information, perhaps of hostages, it did not matter.  They were almost in the center, and then they would continue past each other, and he only saw it when it was too late to stop it.

He sat in his quarters and considered this, clutching his chest, and he did not arrange to meet the doctor the following week.

***

They talked well into the following morning, with Parmak managing to eat less than half of the food that was offered to him, Marritza pausing at two intervals to take his dermal regenerative compounds, and Kepern eventually retiring to her bedroom.

“I must be getting back to the hospital, I--” Parmak began to apologize, but Marritza wouldn’t hear it.

“Please; give your supervisor my apologies for keeping you.  I should have your requisitions back from _Kora II_ by the end of the week.”

Until recently, Marritza had lived and worked on _Kora II_ , at the Cardassian Military Academy, where he safely stored his collection of files.  Parmak had more or less prompted his return.

His condition was killing him slowly, and he had learned to be satisfied with that, with the cruel and gradual punishment, until he realized it made no difference.  Not to him or to anyone else.  He told Parmak that his first plan involved a good deal of facial surgery - which Parmak of course saw as obvious and poorly executed - and repurposing his guilt so he could perform well in a courtroom.  

“And then Gul Darhe’el died,” Marritza said, tossing his hand in resignation, “as a hero and a valued servant of the State.  A legend, with his bust emblazoned in every book I taught from.  Everyone had seen his face; I could not _take_ it anymore.  I could not tolerate it, nor could I use it for myself, I mean.”

Parmak had nodded at that; he learned plenty about duality during his own prison sentence, and it comforted him to see, at least based on Marritza’s speech, that this was a universal condition.  Or maybe it was an inherently Cardassian trait, but one that neither of them had much success with prior to their terms of punishment, to the extent it caused their respective suffering in the first place.  But, after concluding this discussion with Marritza, Parmak would not have traded away a day of his time at the camp.

“You made a difference to innocent people, Kelas,” Marritza said - by the third hour, they were on more casual terms. “Believe me, without you there, they _all_ would have been left for dead the _moment_ they stopped working.  That is a difference you can still make; I cannot.”

“ _Aamin_.  There was nothing you could _do_ \--” but Parmak did not know what he wanted to say.

“Yes, and I _did_ nothing.  And then I taught generations of our people, impressionable students, how to do nothing.  As far as your compassion reaches, it is overshadowed by the influence of my inaction.”

Parmak had no desire to debate this.  He respected Marritza’s point, even though it saddened him to hear the man’s final goal.

Marritza put his hands on the table, folding them and steadying them, trying to meet Parmak’s gaze.  This was ultimately unsuccessful, but he found Parmak _did_ allow him to touch his hand.

They both glanced down at this, at the place where their fingers curled hesitantly together on the granite tabletop.

“My shri-tal...” Marritza began, satisfied with their contact.

_No_ , Parmak thought, frantically tightening his fingers.  As far as he was concerned, life was a tangible thing, and he could hold it inside as long as Marritza would let him.  He had never stood by helpless while a friend died.  And, granted, he had not had many patients yet in his professional career, but he had _never_ lost one; he had even fewer friends.

“...I am going to hand myself over to the Bajorans, and I fully expect them to execute me.  In fact, I will settle for nothing less.  And, when the time is right, when our worlds are ready, I want you to share our experiences.  I want you to find someone who will know what to do with them, how to _teach_ them in _just_ the right tone - I will not have them sounding inspiring, any more - to ensure they are never, _ever_ repeated.”

He had no one in mind for this coveted position, and no way of knowing that the individual’s name would be returning to him shortly, along with the other records he had requested from Marritza in exchange for his cooperation.

There was not much to say after that.  Parmak had given him Beya and Nadyn’s information, as much as he had for either one, and hoped Marritza could find enough like-minded Bajorans from there to ensure his trial turned out the way he wanted it to.  Marritza promised to start work immediately, while Parmak rushed out and began the journey back on what _should have been_ the most efficient public transport in the quadrant, or in the sector, at the very least.  He ended up doing a lot of walking.

Parmak did his best to reach the hospital on time, but it was a concept he was still struggling to reintegrate with.  His most recent definition of ‘time’ was based on Bajoran days, divided roughly into Cardassian hours, and then multiplied again into even work cycles.  After all this, the days ended up varying by a local quarter-of-an-hour, and by the end of his term, he had seen the sun come up at every possible hour of the day.  It would have been much simpler and more consistent to leave the time labels alone, rather than overwrite them with Cardassian pride.  Parmak felt that way about a lot of things.  But his nationalistic frustration did not change the fact that he was late.

When he arrived, Doctor Herin was already in the staffroom, peeling off a wet, ruined pair of gloves and depositing them in the reclamator, then wiping her hands compulsively on her tunic.  She was agitated at the mess and the intrusion.

“Were you taken ill?” she asked.  This was the only acceptable explanation; Parmak ignored her warnings for hygiene, and had found himself with a virus overnight.  “I assumed you’d gone home, Doctor Parmak.”

As before, Parmak did not know what excuse to give her, so he shook his head and remained quiet, walking over to check his posted schedule instead.  It had not occurred to him that the onsite beds were offered as a luxury, one Herin used almost constantly due to her title and expectations; if she wanted to, however, she could go and spend her time at _home_.  In the same way, she had not recognized Parmak’s value as an honest and dedicated worker.  It was common for her assignments not to last long, either finding themselves ill or overworked, or poorly matched by the desperate State Board in the first place.  They had become so accustomed to Occupation, where doctors were hardly necessary, and they struggled to find enough decent ones to work in the new political climate.  It was like treating withdrawal from an addiction with only sheer willpower.

“I don’t understand your reluctance to speak to me,” Herin was disappointed. “I thought it was a compulsion for you; I only meant to redirect it, not to make you _constantly_ silent, Doctor Parmak.”

“I was not ill,” he replied steadily. “I went to see a friend, and I am… I am still adjusting to the timing, here.  On Bajor it was dif-”

Neither of them really wanted the thought to continue.

“That will be sufficient,” she assured him.  She replaced her gloves before reaching out to touch his shoulder in what she hoped was a reassuring way. “I cannot help with any of that.”

_No_ , he thought solemnly, _only Aamin can_.

Herin watched him, gathering the breath to continue.  Unfortunately for Parmak, the only place she knew to be delicate was in a surgical suite, and she had already outlasted her personal best.

“And,” Herin added, just as Parmak turned to finally consult his schedule - it said 'Dispensary' in bold letters, “whether you are friends or not, I will not have you leaving the premises in the company of a patient.  It could be misconstrued in a number of ways, Doctor Parmak, none of which place the hospital in a desireable light.”

“Of course.  How irritatingly Cardassian.”  

He disappeared into the Dispensary, muttering pointedly in Bajoran, mentally revising his next meeting with Marritza.  Formal invitations would need to be sent, approval would need to be granted by Herin in advance, and a neutral space would need to be booked for their use.  Parmak felt very much like he was courting someone as a young man, having his vital career skills shoved aside in favor of proper procedure and decent appearance.  While he could see Herin’s point, he thought it was, at best, outdated.  Did she really need him to be _polite_ , or did she need him to see patients?  The Dispensary assignment was beginning to feel more and more like punishment every day.

He was fully qualified to be operating, and Herin was running a team that she freely admitted was understaffed.  She had watched him work - the one time - and been mostly complimentary, but he had not tried hard enough, somehow.

Reluctantly, he let himself consider his youth, digging through his memories for inspiration while working his mindless Dispensary shift.  It felt like he was taking his own kind of medication.


	9. Chapter 9

Parmak checked the time constantly and anxiously.  His meeting with Marritza was scheduled for that evening when his shift ended; Keppern had sent a communique already on her employer’s behalf, alerting Parmak that he managed to find some very interesting records with the information Parmak provided.  This had taken over two weeks to accomplish, until Parmak had almost convinced himself the entire ordeal was a hallucination.  He had even requested sleeping medication from Doctor Herin, who consulted him in a private and surprisingly comforting appointment before she obliged. 

“These things are common,” she assured him, not quite touching his shoulder.  “Is it… is it something you need to talk about?”

He had declined; what was there to say?

Now, he paced, having already cleared the counter and broken down the compounding machinery for the night.  He needed to see Marritza _soon_.

“It is 2230,” the computer replied, when Parmak asked, “and you are three hours overdue for your dosage of _keparrem hydrate_.”

“Shh, I know,” Parmak said, even though Cardassian computer systems were, interestingly, not willing to enter arguments, “I’m not going to sleep yet.”

When the Dispensary door first opened, it was not Marritza who entered, but Herin, clicking her tongue and leaning her head between shelves of compounds and bagged prescriptions to inspect them.

Prepared for such behavior, and also willing to make amends, Parmak offered his hand to her.  It was concealed in one of his own self-sterilizing gloves.  

Herin was never the type to find things _funny_ , especially not to the point of laughter.  Instead, when her mind thought something was amusing, it was more likely to see it as a puzzle than as a joke.  That was just the way she worked.  Words were not greatly comfortable to her unless they were purposely arranged to be played with, and even then, she was more drawn to numbers and their consistent rules.  She let constants and variables slide around in her mind until they fit neatly together, and _that_ was the point where you might catch her smiling, at her most content.  

It was for this reason that she took up Parmak’s hand, allowing herself a barely-detectable grin as she spoke.

“Ironic?” she led.

“I suppose,” he replied. “But I want to work in the trauma wing again, and you were right about the contaminants.”

“I will certainly consider it.  You were right also, you know, about speaking to patients.  I’ve found it very useful, at least with patients who cannot be compromised by the practice.”

Parmak thought that was rather the _point_ , but remained quiet and gently let go of Herin’s hand.

“I am meeting that friend of mine tonight,” he said quickly.

“I noticed you had not gone to bed at your usual time.”

“Is… that why you came to the Dispensary?”

“To ensure you had administered your own medication?  Yes.”

“Yes,” he echoed, “later, I will.”

“You will not skip more than the one dose, Doctor Parmak.”

“No…”

He got the impression she was trying to be friendly, or at least familial, and took some small comfort in it.  In any case, she was willing to see him almost as an equal, only in need of little nudges here and there, and he agreed on the accuracy of her new appraisal of him.

“It is good you’ve found someone to talk to, properly,” she concluded, before nodding politely and turning to leave.

It was almost as if she was apologizing, admitting she could not satisfy this need for him.  Parmak found himself mildly confused by her admission, and the way the words fought to be amiable through the tight restrictions of her tone.  He shook it off and paced in silence, peeling off his gloves and playing with them, until Marritza joined him, nearly an hour later, bearing a PADD stuffed with data chips and a welcomingly warm canteen.

“Will you sit outside with me, Kelas?” he offered, extending the hand that held the canteen.  

He only meant to let Parmak see the steam rising from the lid of it, to assure him they would be comfortable outdoors at this late hour.  The intent registered in Parmak’s mind only after he had taken hold of Marritza’s arm, however, and they shared apologetic and amiable laughter as they moved outside together.  Marritza’s future success depended on avoiding security scanners - the hospital was drowning in them, from floor to ceiling - and Parmak knew that well.  But since Herin was so insistent on him behaving _properly_ , he let Marritza lead him out to a neutral meetingplace.

They were beyond the age that allowed them to sit comfortably on the ground with their backs against the building, so they continued walking into the town center, stopping when they found a Patisser’et that was empty at this hour.  Several neat stone-and-metal tables were outside the entrance, and Marritza chose the one closest to the window, allowing Parmak something to study when eye contact inevitably became uncomfortable for him.  Parmak so rarely left the confines of the hospital property, anyway, and recently he’d become a virtual prisoner of the sterile walls of the cold Dispensary.  It was nice, almost shockingly so, for him to be faced with something bright and a little bit haphazard - as much as any Cardassian confectionary could manage - instead of surrounded by neverending grids of white shelving.  There was a glass partition, though, so Parmak would not feel too out-of-place...

Taking a quick inventory of the window, and finding it lined generously with cascading trays of pastries, Marritza smiled to himself and sat down.  Immediately, he offered a portion of his medo’ka tea across the table, letting Parmak drink from the upturned canteen lid while he kept the base for himself.

“I took great care with the names you left me, Kelas,” Marritza began, as if Parmak had entrusted him with precious, and physical, treasures.  To some extent that was true, as reputation was a delicate but powerful thing in Cardassian culture; the reputations of Bajorans, then, were delicate in the way one might consider the internal wiring of an explosive, “they were just what I needed, and more.”

Parmak shifted anxiously in his seat, glancing for a moment at a leeza pastry, taking in the gentle dip in the center of the cake beneath the weight of its thick citrus frosting, and waited.  Leeza were deceptively attractive, and Parmak did not understand _why_ beyond the novelty of them - the first bite was harsh and bitter, enough to make some tasters teary-eyed, before adjusting to the flavor.  He had never made it past the first bite, himself, but supposedly it got sweeter and sweeter as the tongue grew accustomed to it, to the point of suffering a brief withdrawal when the final crumbs were gone.

He leaned encouragingly toward Marritza.

“I’m so pleased to hear that,” he said, when Marritza was not forthcoming.  “Were you bracing me for bad news?”

Marritza shook his head and said, “you will have to tell me,” before completing a more satisfactory explanation.

It turned out his search for Beya’s file was fruitless, but his search for Nadyn put him in touch with the former Terok Nor, where he found several other interesting leads to pursue.  Among these was a single Cardassian who still lived aboard the station, and a Bajoran member of the Shakaar cell, the very one that had liberated Marritza’s camp years ago.  He expected this would work out perfectly, and thanked Parmak by gently patting his shoulder, and setting down a PADD with the Cardassian survivor’s details.

“ _Elim Garak_ ,” Parmak read, like the name was supposed to be familiar.

“I’m sorry I could not provide an image file,” Marritza said.  The truth was that many Cardassian records did not have them at all; Gul Darhe’el had become an unfortunately famous exception. “He was exiled during the Occupation, I thought you might have known each other.”

‘Exile’ was a fitting term for Parmak’s ‘assignment’ to Batal, but his work was solitary, and he had no accomplices to speak of.  He did not have any crimes either, but he struggled, sometimes, with reminding himself of that fact.  

Parmak read on; the file was sparse, and some fields were redacted altogether.

“Oh, the _tailor_!” he realized, after a while, and Marritza leaned back and grinned.

 _The tailor who apologized to me for not finishing a suit I never even asked for!_ Parmak thought, enthusiastically.   _Now why would such a considerate man be in exile?_

He expected they had a lot in common, and, since he did not allow himself to feel any self-pity, he devoted all of it, perhaps dangerously, to this Elim Garak.

A thin, timid sort of smile spread across Parmak’s face, and Marritza felt confident in his work.  At that moment, he had _truly_ managed to use his skills for the benefit of another.  Or so they both thought, with the details they shared between themselves.  

“I regret that I could only track down two of your friends, but - well, I don’t mean to be gruesome - but it’s a wonder any of your contacts were alive, let alone the majority.”

Parmak accepted this with a nod, and his focus slipped to one of the more inviting, bright-blue desserts in the window.  The color had never made him feel so at ease.

“Our liberation was a good deal more recent than yours, Aamin,” Parmak said.  “Or I - yes - I expect that would be true.”

Marritza leaned in to replenish his friend’s drink, and made another good use of his observational skills, noting outwardly minute but personally significant details in the way Parmak’s tongue glossed over his bottom lip as he considered the items in the window, the way his face warmed when Marritza said ‘friends’ - the plural, a Bajoran and a Cardassian in equal balance - and the way he slid back in his seat, dragging his feet back so his toes were pointed into the pavement, scraping along and making the backs of his boots squeak under the new angle.  He noted, too, the Patisser’et’s opening hours - starting at sunup in the summer - from the inscription on the door, and resolved to make their next visit at a time Parmak could go _inside_ and enjoy himself properly.

“It must be very likely she is dead, in any case,” Parmak continued, finally turning his gaze back toward Marritza, “especially if _you_ have no record of her.”

“I do not have a death record either, Kelas,” tutted Marritza. “There are _numerous_ reasons, and indeed plausible ways, for a sleeper-cell member to disappear.”

Parmak stared at the empty grid on the screen beneath Beya’s name, before turning another digital page and being met, more happily, with Nadyn’s.  It was coupled with record of her admission to the Militia Clinic in Kendra Province, and a description - not an official record - of her son’s birth.  Parmak felt almost a sense of pride at that, and this greatly helped Marritza decide how to address him.  He didn’t _think_ this half-Cardassian child was Parmak’s - the timeline and the man’s temperament were all wrong for that kind of thing - but he was relieved to see there was some connection, that the birth did not shock him.

“His name is not given here, but I have a record of baptism,” smiled Marritza.  “ _Jina Kelas_ … isn’t that nice?  I’m always interested in how the translations seem to work themselves out…”

Marritza’s camp was situated in a similar way, where only minimal pools of language ever crossed each other, but even then, he did not hear much beyond impassioned screams from either side.  One did not need to be a linguist or even a record-keeper to understand _those_ ; he sometimes wished he was deaf, but he may as well have been already, for all the change he did not facilitate.

“Anyway--”

“Baptism?” Parmak echoed, when he thought Marritza was making himself uneasy.

“Yes.  A reliable line to trace, as religious records have always remained entirely Bajoran-held, and there is only one monastery on Bajor known to handle Cardassian children at all, _especially_ those of mixed descent.  And,” Marritza added, “the adjoining orphanage has _no_ computer activity whatsoever since the Withdrawal, so we can assume mother and child are still together, and likely near the welcoming arms of the _Relera_ Monastery.”

“Hmm,” said Parmak, thoughtfully.  “They do seem more interested in their families than we are in _ours_.  Do you… think I might be able to visit, there?  The monastery, at least.  Or would I put an entire transport ship at risk?”

Marritza, who had been planning to leave on his own privately-arranged transport for several weeks now, toyed with this mutual fear.  While Marritza was essentially dead already, Parmak still had a difference to make, for as many years as his body would allow.

“I will take care of that for you before I go, dearest Kelas.”

He set his arm on the table, with his palm facing up, and waited for Parmak to notice it, if not touch it himself.  Parmak looked down, and stood up without Marritza’s assistance, this time.

“I will have Keppern arrange our reservations here,” Marritza said in conclusion, gesturing to the door.  “Shall I walk you home?”

 _To the clinic?_ Thought Parmak, _that might be nice…_

“No, thank you.”

***

Parmak awoke, several nights later, to Herin leaning over him, with the emergency lights in the ceiling engaged.  Her breath was warm and quiet over his forehead, tickling his chufa until he stirred.  It was gentle enough, but he would have been more at ease had she grabbed his shoulder and shook it; everything else around him seemed to say something was very wrong.

He pulled his blanket up to ensure his chest and neck were appropriately covered, and accepted the blinking handheld communicator Herin held out to him.  Without a word of advice, she departed.  This was not her fault, either; the caller gave her no information beyond a single demand for Parmak, which was even made in a computerized voice.  She had heard rumors that the Obsidian Order made its record collection calls in this manner, and made certain she did not overstep her boundaries, or make herself a target in a way that might extend beyond her professional association with Parmak.  

“Who is this?” Parmak asked, sleepy but not unpleasant, suffering from none of Herin’s own anxious assumptions.

“A friend.  I have… something of a favor to ask of you, Kelas.”

The tone was still under partial control of the computer-voice, but Parmak caught the way it paused and pulsed and relied completely on its listener.  It must have been…

“Glinn Ramet?” Parmak asked, blinking heavily as if that would ease his confusion.

“Oh, careful!” he said, amused. “I am not a Glinn, and I have no orders for you.  Merely a--”

“--Favor,” Parmak concluded.  “I owe you _nothing_.”

Then he drilled his fingernail into the ‘end’ button, and was met with an irritating shrill tone, while the call remained engaged.  Ramet could be heard laughing beneath the high-pitched frequency, and Parmak did not know which he found more distracting, more disheartening.  This was the intention, after all.

“My sources tell me you are seeking re-approval for surgery, which I would be happy to grant you without a preliminary examination,” Ramet said.

Despite Herin not sharing this with him, he knew.  The Obsidian Order was universally observant, and the major grunt of this work was undertaken by eager new Probes like Ramet.  

“I’m not bypassing an exam,” Parmak said firmly. “That isn't a favor to anyone.”

“I regret that we did not part on fairer terms, Kelas, but the fact is, I need you to take up this favor for me.  Well, not for me entirely.  This is for you, and for a certain friend of yours.”

Parmak had learned, since his interrogation, how to remain quiet.  It was not always the best strategy, but he knew Ramet to be desperate and impatient, so he planned to sit this particular threat out on the sideline.  With loud and steady breaths into the receiver, Parmak waited.  Eventually, Ramet disengaged the mechanical wailing, content that it had served its purpose and was now only obstructing his hearing.  Was Parmak whispering?  He could not tell.

“What was that, Kelas?” but only silence remained between them for a long moment.  “You may like to know that one Ijona Beyat has found herself vulnerable in my jurisdiction…”

Parmak gave a hissing breath through his teeth, stifling several demands and questions and _fears_ simultaneously.  None of them would matter much to Ramet, from a safe distance.

“And _I_ have found within myself some mercy--” really, the current lag-time of trials as war criminals were slowly and dramatically processed after the Withdrawal, “--enough to give you the chance to make sure she cannot harm herself.  That sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?”

Of course, Parmak expected Ramet was presenting a twisted version of the truth to him, as he considered ways his friend Beya - Ijona? - could hurt herself, and why she would do so in the first place.  He saw no cause for her to bring physical harm to herself, unless it was to avoid a trial… perhaps she was not going to cooperate in her trial, and Parmak held the testimony the State needed, and was calling on him now to solidify her sentence.  Ramet continued winding through his monologue, but Parmak was hardly paying attention.

 _But_ , Parmak worked through his thoughts slowly, _if she was Bajoran, then her trial could be decided without me present even in the sector, let alone the tribunal itself.  She’s…_

“... an upstanding Cardassian…”

_Backward!_

“... would provide assistance without _question_ …”

 _Assistance_?

“... within even _your_ skillset.  Wouldn’t you agree, Kelas?”

Ramet’s use of Parmak’s name always served to snap him to attention, hesitant and familiar as it managed to be.  

“I will n--”

“Good.  I will bring her to see you as soon as my schedule allows.”

Parmak was unsure what details he had agreed to, what level of truth he recognized from Ramet’s verbal maze, but one fact was clear.  He was going to be paid a visit by the Obsidian Order, and soon.

He never did get back to sleep that night, and only kept his eyes shut so he was not shaking beneath the unwavering gaze of the little blue emergency lights above his bunk.  

***

For their final meeting, Marritza took Parmak to the Patisser’et just before dusk.  They sat inside together, at a booth in front of the projection hearth, at Parmak even managed to eat something.

Having seen him admiring the leeza cakes at their last visit, Marritza caved in and ordered one for each of them.  Hesitantly, Parmak held his up to his open mouth, taking in the scent of the frosting, and reacting to the bitterness even from this distance.  He had to scrape off most of the decoration just to get his first bite finished, but that was enough for him.  With some difficulty, he swallowed, thanked Marritza, and left the rest of the cake on his plate in favor of downing his warm rokassa instead. 

“You never had these as a boy, Kelas?” remarked Marritza, finishing his.  “Why, the more the palette has of them, the better they taste.”

“I never understood them,” Parmak said regretfully.  “Of course, I do _now_ ; it’s the acidity reacting to the vomeronasal organ, causing you to salivate, and to crave more, but I still don’t understand the _appeal_ of the thing, I’m afraid.”

Parmak was determined to stay stuck on an unpleasant sensation, that night.  He knew Marritza would be leaving him permanently, and he was not ready to begin making his own adjustments to compensate.  Meanwhile, Marritza knew it was no good for both of them to feel depressed, so he worked diligently to find something Parmak would enjoy.

“I can leave you with access to a selection of files from _Terok Nor_ ,” Marritza explained, passing the digital menu across the table to Parmak again, “or _Deep Space Nine_ , as the Federation has been calling it.”

“Shouldn’t Bajor have named it?” Parmak said halfheartedly, while he read.

“Apparently not,” Marritza replied with his voice firm, afraid of starting such a dissident discussion in public.  

Parmak felt foolish and nodded, but Marritza took his hand reassuringly, using it to gesture to some other items on the menu list.

“I would give it some time,” Marritza explained, “but you should be able to find safe transport with the files I will leave you, should you wish to go.”

“Thank you.  I do.”

“How about a sugar-net?” Marritza deflected. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have _those_ as a boy, either?”

“A few.”

Marritza squeezed Parmak’s hand, twice in quick succession, and pressed the button on the side the menu display to place their order.

“Then you will have a few more.”

“You have been so generous to me…” Parmak sighed.

“It is all I _can_ be, now, Kelas.  You deserve it, and I must be in a giving mindset; it benefits us and all those we wish to offer consolation to.”

Parmak nodded again.  He could understand that; it was a constant sweetness, to make up for the initial bitterness that was bred and trained into them both.

Their tray of sugar-nets arrived, with six of them neatly stacked in two piles.  They were a caramel-colored confection, spun from thick strands of sugar, hardened in freezing temperatures, and typically presented alongside a cup of hot syrup for dipping.  

“Last time I had these,” Parmak said with a nervous laugh, “it was to pull a tooth out, on purpose…”

He dunked his into the syrup, stuck the end pointedly against a rear molar, and bit down a good deal more carefully than he had done years ago.


	10. Chapter 10

Like Garak, Parmak took great care to repress his memories of childhood.  But while Garak engaged in this practice to guard any potentially compromising weaknesses or secrets, Parmak did it to postpone the side effects of his own mistakes for as long as possible.  Parmak was not one to take pity on himself; he assigned himself the sole blame for all of his own early transgressions, and tried to keep them buried.  Without having taken extensive psychology courses, he believed this was the best way to keep himself functioning.  

It had been keeping him relatively steady, until that final day with Marritza at the Patisser’et, where his well-trained mind could not resist connecting memories from a simpler time. 

When Parmak was a child, before he ever left his home to live at an institute or academy, his mother kept a very careful eye on him.  But that was in her nature, as a hydrologist, to preserve things that were precious.  

“Teket,” she said warningly; the name of ‘Kelas’ would not occur to him for several more years, “mind your dinner; you won’t like it cold.”

He pouted but knew better than to argue.  

“There,” she said approvingly, as he collected another spoonful of his _dorra_ paste, “only another few cycles, and then I will make you whatever you want to eat.”

He was due to have his First Molar Extraction before the week was out, and extra care was taken to ensure his sample would arrive to the Bureau of Identification in exceptional condition, with no room for mistaken identity in the future.  Little Teket, of course, did not even consider this when he changed his name and severed all ties to the molar he’d left behind; it did arrive damaged, anyway, despite his mother’s best attempts.  

The thick, calcium-rich paste had strong undertones of both fish and citrus, and Teket struggled with finishing his compulsory portion.  It was condensed with all the nutrients he needed and would otherwise take in solid form, and as a result, it was overwhelmingly heavy in flavor.  He still knew not to create conflict, but he thought he could allow his palate time for adjustment if he began a conversation between bites.

“I want to eat a sugar-net,” said Teket quietly, “everyone else in class was eating them after Fast today, _everyone_.”

“Because they have all had their molars extracted,” his mother replied, voice even and calm.

Another sluggish bite.

“And I _need_ to have it extracted?”

“Yes, Teket.  Your appointment date has been set for almost two years, now.”

“I thought _criminals_ had them extracted.  If I’m good, won’t it fall out on its own?” he babbled, “Mhara Jessel - she’s one class above me - she said she lost _two_ all on her own, and she’s the nicest p--”

Parmak’s mother shook her head.  She worried about her son talking mostly to girls at school, and was looking forward to sending him to one of the many Military academies at the end of the year, where he would be protected from such distraction.  Not distraction in a romantic sense, but in the truest sense: making him deviate from his State-intended career path.  He talked a lot about women and science, and his mother couldn’t help but feel guilty, as she was often the only one at home for him to model himself after.  But he did not deeply discuss environmental science with her; he preferred to talk about medicine.  The loss of his molar had been a point of neat and nationalistic obsession in the household since his appointment was set, and talk of dentistry moved steadily into other medical disciplines.  His father held a lowly but time-consuming role in the military - prisoner processing - and was never around to integrate Teket’s interests with a more practical application.  She worried this had made her, by default, a neglectful parent, and she refused to fail her precious son any further.  

“Everyone must have them extracted,” she recited.  “Mhara Jessel was not being truthful with you; you shouldn’t speak to her anymore.  If her molars have fallen out, she is not eating well, and she’s giving a worthless sample.”

“I don’t mind giving my molar,” Teket insisted, “I am _proud_ to.  But I want to _give_ it, not have it _taken_.”

“Eat your _dorra_ ,” his mother refused to fall further into an argument with him; it was a privilege he had lost, “and rinse your mouth twice before bed.”

Leaving him alone at the dining table, his mother became neglectful in a much more literal sense.  Teket collected an inconspicuous few credits from her Purchaser, sending them to his own limited model, made for children to practice their budgeting with an allowance.  He slipped this into his school bag, and made plans to meet with his friend Mhara as soon as possible.

He was becoming partially - but still prematurely - aware of the main societal divide that existed among his people.  It had very little to do with gender or economic standing or even practical ability, and everything to do with how one perceived these traits within themselves.  Relative to the State, one could view their involvement as worthwhile and supportive, or as suspicious and criminal.  For example, there were those like Teket Parmak, who felt having their teeth forcibly removed likened them to prisoners, and then spent the remainders of their lives feeling hyperaware of guilt they manufactured without cause.  On the other side of this caste, there were those individuals who thought their gifts were of immense benefit to the State, and continuously inflated their sense of ego beyond the point of noticeable self-detriment.  With a precise amount of both, Cardassia was able to maintain political balance, but the more it extended its arm in search of resources, the shakier its grip became on the citizens it was meant to be holding safe against its chest.  

Teket had every right to feel guilty about stealing the credits, but it would only continue developing from there.  Several times, he thought about returning them and trying to explain to his mother, but that would place him back at having his tooth torn out, and he could not bargain with himself for anything less than refusal.  So, he caught Mhara after class and transferred the stolen credits to her.  He made his request quietly and vaguely, like it was the last he might ever be granted before a life of inevitable imprisonment for his deviation.

Mhara did not return to him for several more cycles, during which little Teket drove himself repeatedly to the brink of confessing.  But then, finally, only hours before his Extraction appointment, she deposited a full case of sugar-nets and a pot of syrup in his locker.

Of course, since his tools were organic and not mechanical, they needed to be fresh.  He hurried home and hid in his bedroom, and read over all the notes on dentistry he had made throughout the previous two years.  And he knew it was going to hurt, but maybe that would satisfy the sentence for his crime of stealing.

With careful precision, he dunked the first of his nets into the basin of syrup, letting it collect a large, dangling portion.  He pulled this out so it sat just above the surface of the syrup, waiting for it to become tacky, before shoving it downward again and repeating the process, until he had a thick and dangerously sticky comb of syrup attached to the net itself, his extractor.

His hand was steady when he opened his mouth and guided the net inside.  He adhered the syrup to his tooth, setting down the stick and pressing in with both hands, drooling down his chin during this part of the process.  He tested the traction and was satisfied, and as soon as he was mentally prepared, he planned to bite down and tear the whole thing out.  But his plan could not be perfectly executed; he heard his mother in the corridor, intentionally asking the household computer how soon they should leave for Teket’s appointment.

He panicked, and he bit, and he tried vainly to quiet himself.  

For the entire tram-ride to the Bureau Headquarters, his mother lectured him.

“What in the _Union_ ,” she demanded, “would possess you to misbehave like that, Teket?  How is that going to look for our family?  And now do you see what kind of dentist you would make?”

The rag in his mouth kept him mostly quiet while she droned on.  He pressed his hand tight against it, applying pressure as a _good_ physician would, and said nothing beyond half-vocal mumbles of agreement.  

When they arrived, he was shown to a dim room where the primary dentist worked.  Her teeth were the brightest fixture there, and Teket had to shut his eyes when she leaned over his face, holding a reflective metal tool.  She took away the soaked rag, dissolved the remaining shards of sugar-net with one of her force-drills, and picked them out one-by-one with tweezers.  It would have been easy - and indeed hygienically preferable - for her to take them all out at once with a suction tool, but she vocalized this exact reasoning to Teket, hoping the lesson would hit home.

His father was called in from his office across the province, to further this goal.  But he was the last person Teket wanted to see… beyond the potential lecture, his father worked in _prisoner processing_!

The dentist eventually scooped out the intended tooth, split almost completely down the middle, and did nothing to stop the flow of blood-mixed-with-syrup that seeped up from Teket’s newly hollowed gums.  His father scraped the molar clean, and set it into a case with Teket’s full name, familial designation, and intended career etched into the front panel.  

“You know,” his father said, hoping the dentist would observe his conduct favorably, “I have never seen such a disgraceful sample, not even from the interrogation subjects.”

***

When Parmak had recounted this memory to Marritza, he felt almost comfortable enough to go on, to admit that he later _became_ an interrogation subject, but Marritza caught the glinting anxiety in his eyes, and held up his hand.  Maybe it was obvious to him already; Parmak would never have the luxury of knowing for sure.

“So,” declared Marritza, “you have always been quietly rebellious… that is very good.”

There was not time for any further exchange of farewells, and perhaps that was for the best.  Marritza pressed his palm tenderly to Parmak’s cheek as he stood.  He had an early-morning transport ship to catch, and packing to finish, as well as a testament in Keppern’s name.  Parmak had nothing.  Well, he had a bunk at the Hospital, and a pair of new gloves, and a faintly resurgent will not only to live but to live rebelliously.  And he had a sugar-net.  He was given a bag by one of the waitstaff, and slid his remaining net inside to take _home_.

Considerately, the shopkeeper waited until the gentlemen had cleared their plates and stood before shepherding them out and closing the doors.  They were left with a quiet recitation of, “come back and let us serve you again,” which Parmak did not comment on; Marritza had already said “certainly!” on his behalf.

Thanks to resurfacing an old memory, Parmak’s mind was left gasping and sputtering in a deep pool of regrets.  He was considering his interrogation, of course, and how he was destined to become a prisoner at no one’s hand but his own.  He was worrying that he neglected to mention any of this to Marritza, who may have been able to offer at least some minor veil of protection against the Obsidian Order, as they began approaching Parmak again through Ramet.  And he was left shaky and teary, as a result of this.  He could recall _none_ of the walk back to the Hospital, on which Marritza insisted on accompanying him.

“Goodbye, old friend,” he said, touching Parmak’s cheek again.  His fingers were divided by Parmak’s aural ridge, with the lower two daring to brush over Parmak’s throat.  

Parmak nodded and remained silent.

That night, he resolved to type out his feelings, hoping he could send them to Marritza to read the moment he landed on that space station.  He wet his leftover sugar-net by dunking it into an open pot of redleaf tea, and sucked on it for the duration of the night, never biting down, not once.

***

Garak tirelessly continued searching for his own old friend, digging through as many Bajoran records as he could access, but it was impossible to find any favorable overlap with the Obsidian Order within them.  He could open some of Dukat’s records when he was feeling bold, but even these were relatively useless; Dukat managed to describe his own concurrent achievements in so much detail that Garak had to triple-check the dates to be sure he was reading the correct entry.  Any mention of Obsidian Order promotion ceremonies was overshadowed completely.

There was one log about Gul Darhe’el’s funeral ceremony - Garak remembered seeing coverage of it and ridiculing the poor, wilting choices of wreaths, which the State media cleverly tried to cover with sentiments like ‘nothing _should_ outlive such a hero, it would be insulting,’ when really, the flowers were just poorly-grown - and another log about the decidedly unceremonious death of one Aamin Marritza - Garak remembered _that_ occasion also.  He had been too terrified to leave his shop for over a month, following, so he stayed hidden and read through transcripts of Dukat’s discussions with Sisko about carrying out the man’s final wishes, based on what information they could gather from his body at the time of his death.  Dukat had pushed vainly for the Bajoran government to be held responsible, but the offender had already been imprisoned, and Odo enforced his sentence satisfactorily as always.  

Garak wanted to compare these to Bashir’s autopsy report, to see what clues Marritza had left behind to warrant completion.  He found the doctor’s personal passwords refreshingly difficult to crack, however, and spent an unprecedented month trying to unravel the specifics of what was otherwise a closed case.  Even Dukat seemed to have given up on discovering whether or not Marritza’s few bodily possessions warranted further ceremonies, and whether a shri-tal had been engaged in.  They had found a data-rod, but by the time Garak was able to read this note in Bashir’s entry - he knew better than to ask the other man about this directly - it had been sent on to its recipient.  

Sisko’s signature typeface closed the report, with a seal from both the Bajoran provisional government and from Starfleet Command, by an admiral Garak had never heard of.

_We believe [Marritza] intended to contact his physician a final time, and this communication has been sent - and, at Gul Dukat’s insistence and Minister Kaval’s concession - it has been sent without us first opening it.  End report._

***

Of course, any time Parmak thought of Marritza, he felt strong ties to Bajor.  As the days of his absence wore on, and after Parmak had sent his request without getting a reply back, he feared the worst had happened.  Despite his best efforts, he could not seem to divorce the thoughts of Marritza’s suffering from his own.  

It was as though he was a Bajoran windsail, flat and hollow without the invigorating currents Marritza provided.  He had carried Parmak up into the tranquil sky, keeping him safe from greedy tree branches and opportunistic, predatory birds, but then, all at once, he had gone.  Parmak did not know how to keep himself safe from these very same obstacles as he thrashed and tumbled and fell.  But he tried, oh how he tried.

He was trying to cushion himself with the quiet resistance Marritza had seen and praised.  

From the surgical suite, he collected a narrow loop of steel, meant to be used as a closure for extensive ridge injuries, where simple sutures were not enough.  He sterilized this and slotted it into place through the piercing above one of his neck-scales.  There was no inconspicuous way for him to attach this to the upper lining of his ear, but if he tilted it upward and pressed it down against the scale so it would remain in place, the intended effect was still obvious to anyone who might see it.  He was prepared for questions by supporters of the War and of the Withdrawal, and his single, truthful answer of ‘it was done to me at a camp,’ would be sufficient to satisfy either side.  But the question did not come up, not even from Doctor Herin, who was reluctant to speak to him at all since answering the call he received from Ramet.  She did not want to do anything the Order might consider obstructive to their investigation, nor compliant in whatever Parmak was being charged for.

He continued visiting the pastry restaurant, always requesting the same table near the projection hearth.  When the head chef recognized the pattern and came out to greet him personally, he felt embarrassed.  But only until she nodded respectfully, in a way befitting a funerary procession, and took away his menu.

“I receive imported _teredi_ rice,” she explained quietly, “and it makes a nice pudding, but I do not put it on the menu listing.  I would be happy to make one for you, and I am sorry about your partner.”

Parmak accepted the offer, not wanting to overthink whether or not the rice came from continually exploited Bajoran farms, or was traded freely as part of their ever-improving interplanetary relationship.  In either case, it placed both him and the chef in a compromising position, to consume it and to cook it shamelessly.  

It was delicately spiced with Cardassian ingredients, served and disguised in a hollowed citrus rind, and Parmak adored it.  He began ordering it every time he visited, and he felt a bond of _quiet resistance_ growing between himself and the baker.  Much like he had with Beya, he did not ask her to provide her name.  

On one evening several weeks after Marritza’s departure date, he was returning to the Hospital with the empty rind clenched in his fist; he used them to fertilize the barren windowbox at the main entrance to the facility, and discovered he was not very good at cultivation.  But it made him feel better, to be serving others somehow, so he continued to do it regardless.  Additionally, it made the evening air smell light and pleasant, instead of sterile and chemical as it did inside the building.

Herin was waiting for him in the sleeping quarters, which she only sometimes shared with him, holding out an inactive PADD.  The screen was dark and it was making no noise, and Parmak wondered how long she had been standing in that exact position, to not stimulate the device at _all_.

“Your surgical qualification has been scheduled,” she told him.  “Not by me, but I will oversee and grade it.”

“When?” asked Parmak.

He had done nothing in the way of surgery since his assignment, and did not even count the few hemorrhages he had closed.  He knew how to manipulate equipment to close them superficially, without any further incisions or risks of bleeding.  But while that was _clever_ , it was not surgery, and it was not based on a single formal exam Parmak had ever taken.

“Your subject arrives tomorrow morning, 0300, and you will begin as soon as possible after that.”

“ _Subject_?”

Unless Parmak had missed the rapid regression of medicine while he was incarcerated, sentient _subjects_ had not been used for surgical examinations in decades.  Not by respectable physicians, anyway.

He liked to cast Herin as ‘respectable,’ and was relieved that she twitched into a frown as she nodded.

“I am only overseeing,” she repeated.

To further her point, she nudged the PADD into Parmak's hand, causing the screen to light up again the moment it was moved.  He tipped it upward and squinted, and found a message from Ramet, now of the Obsidian Order.  Herin walked out of the room as soon as the device was active, as she felt she knew more than enough already. 

 _This time_ , the cryptic communique read, _you will tell me when the work is done._


	11. Chapter 11

There was not any hope of Parmak sleeping that night, anyway, and he was pacing in the surgery suite long before 0300, already fully dressed and repeatedly disinfecting himself in the ultraviolet shower.  Hopefully, that would appeal to Doctor Herin's heightened scoring standards, but, more than that, he wanted to be absolutely certain he did not cause any infection to come to his subject, Beya. _Beyat_.  He knew, and told himself repeatedly, that it would be Beyat.   
  
And it was.   
  
At 0300 precisely, she arrived in the suite, with Herin holding onto an identification band she wore around one of her wrists.  A man followed a few paces behind them, wearing civilian clothes, but a satisfied smirk that told Parmak all he needed to know; he was running this errand on behalf of the Order, and it would be foolish to make any requests of him.   
  
"Kelas..." Beyat greeted him quietly, hopefully, "Doctor..."   
  
He hardly recognized her voice, but was soon reassured to see her thrash her arms against the hold she was kept in.  Herin stayed firm, but the agent waved his hand dismissively, and Parmak had the impression that Beyat pulled this kind of behavior all the time.     
  
He replied with a satisfied nod of his head.   
  
"Sit," the agent directed, when Beyat was near the stretcher.     
  
With a dramatized roll of her eyes, she obliged, and the agent produced a little reflective rod from inside his sleeve, which he used to prop open her mouth.  He slotted the circular end into place in the middle of her lower lip, and directed Parmak inward, to look at the image produced by the circular display.   
  
Parmak could tell immediately that some surgery had already been conducted on her tongue.  The stitches were acceptable, but visible. Either it had only been sutured within the last couple of days, or it had been done by someone with minimal surgical qualifications, someone in prisoner processing.     
  
When Beyat arrived at the processing center, she was extremely talkative, but none of the present operatives could understand her, especially when she spoke at length in Bajoran.  Clipping her tongue back to its original, narrower size was somewhat effective, but her accent remained decidedly thick and unpracticed when she returned to her native Cardassian language.  Part of this was self-imposed, as Beyat was still unconvinced she had ever been Cardassian in the first place, despite the gaps in her memory. She was unwilling to make the 'reintegration process' easy, but her assigned agent was equally stubborn.  It helped that Ramet conducted performance reviews at every microscopic step of the process.   
  
Parmak was provided a digital outline of the procedure, where Beyat's current image gradually transitioned - with the help of a series of reconstructive injections, superior to Marritza's - to what she looked like when she was first assigned.  An image rendering, in an Obsidian Order file?

All he wanted to do was talk to Beyat, but now was not the time.  Now, he was administering anaesthetic, watching her vitals carefully, gripping the tube too hard, and remaining silent.

***

What Parmak forever considered an _interrogation_ was, in reality, nothing more than an exit interview, conducted when it was decided, by his employer, that he was unfit for his position.  His employer, of course, was Tain, who usually kept his associates on short leads, and tightened them even more so as he approached his own retirement.  The interview was designed by his own hand, to provide stable closure to Parmak's tenure, and to reinforce a few of the lessons that did not seem to be sticking to Garak, his son, who was already irrevocably seen as an unsuitable replacement to lead the Order.  That honor would go to Pythas Lok, who Tain favored and called a son in private _and,_ to sting the core of Garak's loyalty, even more fervently in public.

A lot of the things he did were done in demonstration of his dissatisfaction with Garak, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how innocent he was of certain circumstances.  Among these was the brief and entirely one-sided fascination he took in Doctor Parmak.

Parmak was young and untested, beyond his general examination, when he was hired to work in the household.  Tain had selected him based on this very fact, that he was eager and competitive, while having a comparatively tiny amount of identifying data; all the less for Tain to spend time studying and overwriting and masking.  Even when his birth name and molar were uncovered, there was very little information attached to either one. His parentage was forgettable, and his tooth only stood out for being so poorly rendered. He was perfect, brushed away in an instant if an investigation required, untraceable by both name and DNA.

At the same time, Garak was working at a decent level within the Order, but began noticing he received demotions more frequently than promotions.  He spent more and more time at Tain's home, trying to balance his career progress, at times begging for better assignments before tersely accepting the poor ones.  One afternoon, he was with Tain in his private office, discussing a code the two of them were working on, based on the Hebetian scrolls Tain kept on display; the two of them supported only several common causes, and one was the desire to hide their secrets in plain sight, shrouded by everyday coincidence.  Parmak passed through the hallway with his kit in hand, to attend to a probe that had been 'taken ill' while on assignment; that was all Tain would say on that matter. As he passed the office - doors always open, Tain's voice alone more than enough to keep anyone from approaching and prying - he decided to linger near the doorway.  Tain was hunched low over a padd on the desk, but invited Parmak in to 'take whatever readings he deemed necessary.'

Garak _stared_ while he worked.  He cast his gaze down whenever there was a chance Parmak might catch him, turning around to select one of his tools from his kit on the table.  He took Tain's vitals, as he did several times each day, before packing up his things, nodding politely, and proceeding further down the hall to his assigned patient, of lower rank.

It was the first time Tain had observed this behavior in Garak so closely, but he had heard talk of it from other employees.  All but Mila, anyway, and that was the variable that kept him from acting for so long.

"You seem rather... interested in the doctor," Tain drawled.

"I was considering the field quite strongly before _you_ thought I was better suited to State Intelligence," lied Garak, in reply, hoping desperately that it would sate Tain's curiosity.

But he was not rumored to stare just at the procedures, nor at the doctor's trained hands as they moved.  He looked intently at _all_ of him, in passing, enough to construct his own complete image.  Garak had not yet managed to outgrow the only flaw Tain worried he himself still possessed: showing any kind of interest in someone else.  There was no way, in good conscience, he could pass on his dynasty to the same weakness. It would rot, and die out, and he refused to let that happen.  So, he administered a series of ironic punishments to Garak, with the intention of driving this lesson deeply enough into the young brain for it to take root.

Palandine, who Tain _knew_ Garak continued his affair with, was destined for execution.  Pythas, who Garak had admired and molded himself after in school, trying to get closer to, was going to take his rightful leadership position now, with 'son' written in every single account of the change-over.  And if Parmak was such a distraction, and Garak was so intent on staring at him, then _he_ would be assigned the doctor's final interview, with the special objective of remaining silent.

From Garak's perspective, all of it had worked, and it crushed him.  But from Tain's, it was the final failure on a long list, and the feeling was exactly the same.

Garak knew, as he sat across Parmak at that table, in that cold, dark, tiny, _terrible_ room, that this image would never leave him.  And Parmak, too, would feel the same.

***

Throughout the scoring procedure, Parmak found it unnerving to be under the fix of so many eyes.  Even Beyat’s, although they were closed, offered little relief from Herin, or the adjudicator, who focused intently enough for all three of them.  

But it was just that: a scoring.  Parmak was directed to mark, tuck, and inject for the first step in Beyat’s gradual transformation, but nothing further.  That way, if he did not reach the acceptable standard, no lasting harm would be done; Beyat would have the inlaid tubes drained - adding a small bonus of pain and humiliation to her sentence - before being assigned a more reputable surgeon.  It was so hard to spare them, in this sloping season between wars, and one thing Ramet knew how to do was exploit a connection, even the mildest overlapping of skills.

He inflamed her skin with a drawing tool, carefully studying the intended picture, then feeling for the bone structure beneath her skin, in order to reaffirm her orbital ridges.  These were only traceable with a specialized scanner held at a short distance; from a more general scan, she passed easily as Bajoran, in every way.

Parmak completed the task meticulously, so nervous that his hands became frozen and heavy on his wrists, but at least they did not tremble.  He used one to direct the movements of the other and, in turn, the drawing tool, making dashes and circles with a specialized ink. The examiner watched and made notes, and recorded his time, before helping to rouse Beyat when her anaesthetic began to wear off.  

She remained fastened to her seat, and was not offered reprieve nor refreshment, while the examiner presented his tallies to Parmak and then excused himself to speak with Doctor Herin.  They hunched over the more detailed figures at the other side of the room, pointing and nodding curtly, and typing their notes rather than voicing them, after Herin removed her glove to touch the screen.  All the while, Parmak glanced at Beyat, watching her eyes flutter open and then slam shut again and again, until the pattern was regular, and the edges were less sticky with sleep. The iridescent dashes on her face were visible intermittently beneath the surgical spotlight, as her muscles twitched and tensed, displaying the ghosting ridges Parmak had drawn.  He had merely felt for the bones beneath, and restructured them, but he still felt he had given Beyat something she did not want.

“Satisfactory,” said Herin, in her humorless tone, drained even further in the presence of the examiner.

Parmak’s attention snapped to her in time to say ‘thank you’ before she left the room.  The adjudicator remained behind only a moment longer, to read Parmak the result they had awarded him.

“Subject will remain here for Guided Reintegration, then cosmetic surgery in one week’s time.”

***

The Guided Reintegration turned out to benefit Parmak as much as it was intended to benefit Beyat.  Patiently, they spoke to each other in their blended languages, and the adjudicator only acted as Beyat's more personally involved _handler_ for the first two days.  After that, she was left in the care of Parmak and the more reluctant Herin, while he was temporarily disposed with another assignment nearby; there were so many causes for the Order to go snooping into, so shortly after Withdrawing from Bajor.  His presence was not missed at all, and even Herin relaxed slightly without him hovering constantly over her while she worked. Now, they only felt defensive when an unexpected communique arrived, but Herin was able to sort through these with her usual exacting standards, and found most of them to be patients in need of emergency services or long-term care.  Parmak took his share of these calls, and arranged as many beds as possible within his jurisdiction in the Dispensary, utilizing the cool, sterile location to keep patients who required close attention, as he would be working there anyway.

Beyat was among these, and had a bunk all to herself.  She often sat over the side of it, kicking out her legs for circulation instead of managing any proper movement or exercise, while Parmak looked at her over the brim of whatever device he was reading from at the time.  The other patients did not talk to her beyond the required and needlessly formal introductions; no explanation was given regarding her appearance, and they were wary of misstepping for a number of reasons. Of course, the true and least obvious was her association with the Order, herself, but no one asked about this, and Parmak only discussed it vaguely, and in Bajoran when necessary.

"I want to..." she struggled to find the phrase, and relied on Bajoran, " **go out**."

" **F** ... **Free**?" verified Parmak.  "I don't see why they would **imprison you** , unless whatever mission you failed at was **criminal**.  It is all over now anyway, **done**."

"Not so much as that," she said carefully, and with a smile. "Just... there."

After gesturing at the entry door, Parmak was able to grasp her meaning.

"I suppose... yes, once I am finished with my requirements for the day."

Beyat laid back on her bed restlessly, repeatedly folding her legs up and kicking them down into the mattress again.  A lack of activity did not frustrate her as much as her inability to speak, beyond just the words she struggled to remember and integrate into her vocabulary.  She wanted to sit down with _her Kelas_ and talk to him without repercussion.  As soon as they were alone, free of her assigned overseer, Parmak had returned to work, and taken on a sudden influx of patients with ailments he was well-tested at treating.  She hated that she found it suspicious, but she found _everything_ suspicious, now; maybe this was the trait that had drawn her into undercover service in the first place.  If only she could remember it, or feel any sort of emotional tie to it. She was still convinced that she supported the Bajoran cause, having been beaten and humiliated into this position as one of them, and it would take more than cosmetic surgery to make her feel otherwise.  On this she mused while Parmak completed his work.

" **It isn't as if I remember anything else** ," she mumbled to herself, " **and that's what** we **are supposed to be all about?  Memory? 'Disciplined thought,' or whatever grand thing they try to call it**."

At the same time, Parmak was checking and cross-checking his calculations, dispensing elements and compressing them into medications, and then revising his list of necessary administrations for the night.  There were shots to be given, and oral injections and hyposprays and intravenous solutions, before he could go anywhere with Beyat. And before that, too, he would need to get the patients willingly confined to the room, themselves, and then he would decide whether or not he wanted to request the provision of freedom from Herin.  While he was deciding, and gathering up an armful of hypos to take across the room, he received a message on his PADD. It did not buzz at the right frequency to signal a message from within the hospital - having been set high intentionally to get the owner's attention right away - but instead hardly moved at all.

Parmak noticed as he was already standing up, hands too full to open the message anyway, and he made a note to do it later.  With his requirements finished, he helped Beyat down from her bunk, and together, they stepped _outside_.

" **Remember there** ," she said, as they walked aimlessly, "when all we wanted was to go **inside the tent** where it was **shaded**."

"Mmhmm, yes," agreed Parmak, deep in thought.  " **A-are you hungry**?"

He had brought his PADD with him, inside a shoulder bag, and had not felt it vibrate again.  This had unnerved him slightly; the message was not important enough to be repeated, and the Order often only sent its notifications a single time, deleting them shortly afterward, sometimes even before the recipient finished reading them.

Parmak held his arm to the side to stop Beyat from walking any further, apologized in both languages, and reached for his device.  The notification was from Marritza, and the attached file did not have an expiration timer hovering over it.

"Oh," he explained, with marked relief, " **Old friend of mine**.  I'll get it later, **sorry**.  Are you hungry, **are you hungry** , Beya?"

As good as Parmak was at apologizing, Beyat matched him at decision-making.  She would not have lived this long, otherwise.

" **Yes, dreadfully** ," she said, "somewhere close." 

Parmak had been thinking about the Patisierr'et since they first left, and more so after seeing Marritza's name take up a comforting presence on his PADD screen.  It was also the closest place to eat that he knew of, and one where the owner herself served Bajoran imports without a second glance.

"Ahead of you," he joked, hoping the terms would plant themselves.

He gestured at the patio as they approached it, and as they grew nearer - visible to those inside - the owner arrived to collect them.  They had not even reached the entrance, but the windows were wide and impeccably clean, and Parmak was approaching not only with a woman who was, for all appearances, Bajoran, but a Bajoran with silver lines drawn all over her face.  Beyat was grateful to be, for the first time, left alone. Cardassian men glared at her from inside, but she was out in the fresh air and indirect sunshine, and they could not touch her.

"Two portions _teredi_ citrus?" the owner verified quietly, shepherding them to a table in the corner, at the very edge of the stone-slab patio.  "What to drink? Rokassa, yes?"

Parmak had not even taken in a sufficient breath to answer before she was gone again, looking much more confident inside her establishment, leaning over at several tables to talk distastefully about ' _those two_ ' she had just greeted.  Overcome with curiosity, Parmak watched her, lowering his chin enough to peer between two trays of stacked pastries.

"Everything is so much more complicated than it seems," he observed, and Beyat nodded along for each word she understood.  "I have been here dozens of times, but now it's...?"

" **Difficult** , yes, I see it.   **She is a friend**."

"Oh, is it that obvious?  It should not be obvious..."

"It is to me.  But the men there do not seem to mind."

Beyat shrugged a shoulder, letting it brush against the glass momentarily, to indicate the business she was currently courting, inside.

"A fairly good summary of the Cardassian military, if I am not mistaken," observed Parmak, watching the owner intentionally change her stance, leaning in enough to lower her collar and expose those sought-after neck scales; clearly, she knew what she was doing.  "Maybe they _do_ know, and still do not mind."

"This is what I want to be discussing," said Beyat, still adapting to Cardassian syntax, "I am learning, or _re_ learning how... **the Order** works, and you... if you were not part of the military, but were placed in camp as a war prisoner, then you were...?"

"Employed, yes."

"As a doctor."

"Yes.  I didn't lie to you."

"I trust you, Kelas.  But I am learning that is not common practice."

"It is not common.  And thank you."

"They have any calling for doctors?  I'm... I'm **surprised**."

His eyes flicked away from hers and sought the distracting comfort of the frosting coated _leesa_ nearest him, in the window display.  The current subject was a delicate one, which he knew they would need to discuss in some semblance of code, but speaking recognizable Bajoran would not be the best idea now, either.  As much as he hated to admit it, there was some brilliance in designing camps that way; the atmosphere would endure anywhere, and always.

" **Head**..." he spoke cautiously, "I provided his services, personally."

With a subdued nod, Beyat acknowledged this.

"I have learned that much," she said.  "That if you are not a militant, you are doing far more dangerous work."

"That's true," Parmak made a defeated sound, more like a sigh than a chuckle.

"Am I permitted to ask why you were dismissed?"

From inside, the proprietor emerged with a tray braced between her hand and shoulder, one edge of its rim resting on each.  She removed their beverages and citrus-cupped portions of pudding, and bowed at them politely.

"Your tone is very good," she said, to Beyat.  "Go on, I do not wish to disturb you, no..."

She turned and went in again, pressing the empty tray flat against her chest, so the sudden contact with the cool metal forced her scales to swell reflexively.  In admiration, Beyat observed this.

"You are," Parmak replied.  "I lied during an interview."

In a way that coddled his minute sense of self-pity, this was true.  And although the interview was an interrogation, and the lie was something he had never considered carrying out in any practicality, the essence was true.  He had the _resources_ and _potential motivation_ to disable Tain, and for that - the mere requirement of his job, and Tain's inevitable ageing and renowned attention to detail - he was removed and sent away.  The session was clear in his mind now, and to try and cope, he stared into the pastry case as Marritza had taught him, but he found the bitterness of the _leesa_ just like the eyes of his interrogator, bright and burning through the glass, and he had to stand up.  He felt sick, and leaned down nervously to stir his pudding, scooping up large spoonfuls of it and then dropping them into the rind again, fingers trembling.

"Kelas, Kelas...?" Beyat tried quietly to return him to reality, "I'm sorry.  I won't say--"

When he did acknowledge her, his eyes were closed, and he nodded fervently, pointing at them to indicate he intended to keep them that way at least a little longer.

" **It is fine** ," he replied gently.  " **Could not... could not be helped, forever**."

She gave him a solemn nod, even though he was not watching her, and waited until he seemed calmer to even attempt touching him.  This process began gradually, at his very fingertips over the spoon, curled tightly into themselves until his knuckles were white and the ridges flared upward.

" **Is this fine**?" she asked, stroking up to his knuckle and then stopping where the scaling became sharp.

He swallowed all of the doubt in his throat, doubt and bile, and gave a hot little breath through his nostrils.

"Yes.  He did not touch me; he never had to touch me."

Within the safety of the restaurant, the proprietor watched this scene unfold, wanting to help, but being unable to interfere so suddenly.  To gain a better vantage point, she moved up toward the window, and began rearranging the lines of biscuits, performatively pinching some, declaring them too dry to sell, and removing them.  She stuffed them into her apron and muttered to herself, scolding a newly hired apprentice for rolling the dough too thinly, while some of the men agreed and dismissed their own Glinns under similar metaphorical pretenses.  When all of this was finished, she went outside again.

"I don't know what else they wanted from me," Parmak was sobbing the words quietly, and though they were slurred, Beyat understood them, and so did the proprietor.

She cleared her throat and knew better than to glance over her shoulder at the forming crowd.

"I can see it - that the timing is not ideal - but please... Take these home," she whispered to them, stretching open her pockets to display the wafers.  Then, more loudly for the sake of her audience, she repeated, "I said to _go home."_

Beyat did not know how to argue, nor was she given time.  Of course, arguing was a native skill she had lost touch with, but she wanted to point out, at the very least, that she _was_ home.  But now was not the time for a pedantic case, improving her fluency or not, so she took the biscuits, and she and Parmak fled to the clinic.  The proprietor had often watched Parmak leave in the past, when circumstances were calmer and stakes were lower, so now, she merely verified that he stumbled off in the same direction before she returned to her customers.

Parmak stopped outside of the Dispensary, trying to control his breathing before they continued.  He did not know what else to do, so he reached out and waited for Beyat's hand, shutting his eyes and focusing all of his energy on making his body still.

"I know, I know," she repeated until he nodded along with her.  They were speaking this affirmation together, but he still wanted her touch.

To achieve this, she needed to release one handful of the wafers.  But he shook his head when she threatened to drop them, and instead he let her slide it from her hand into his.  He closed his fingers, crunching it and cracking it to pieces, and she stroked his knuckles as she had done before.

"I have always tried not to think about it," he explained, having calmed himself just enough for coherency.

" **Like you said, that would not always be possible**.  Apologies, I mean--"

"I understood you."

She did not yet withdraw her hand.

"It must be... so difficult," she parsed, "to give the support, instead of take what you need."

"I don't need..." he began to say, but the rest of the words that occurred to him were painfully untrue; he did not bother voicing them, but left them to die in the throat like the rest of his doubts.  "I will need to do your surgery. You see that, don't you? I will need to... **do as I am told** ," he spat, in the same cadence they had heard together in their days at Batal, "and send you back to _those people_!"

"Am I permitted--" Beyat started her own phrase and then completed it physically, embracing him in her arms, breaking the remaining biscuits against his back and letting the crumbs fall to the ground.

They stood this way for several minutes, until Beyat could not keep quiet any longer.  Whether this was a Bajoran trait or a Cardassian one, she could not tell. But it did not matter, if it would only give Parmak some shred of the help he needed.  He was her friend; they had, at one point, been everything for each other, and that was becoming true again now. They needed to adjust to it, because it could not be avoided.  Carefully, Beyat shuffled to the side, turning them away from the Dispensary door and the monitoring devices installed all around it.

"I will have the surgery," she repeated.  "And I will go back to them, and do their work as you did - as I have... **supposedly done before** \- and I will lie and lie and _lie_."

He did not know what to call her.

"Beya..." he settled on, voice broken and soft, "They will _know_."

"They don't seem to know now.  Truly, Kelas, they don't seem to know that I want _nothing_ to do with them.  If they know, they don't believe it.   **And that will work just the same**."

"Lower your voice," he implored, his lips forming wet shapes on her shoulder.

"I'll have the surgery!" she said more passionately, but at the same stable volume.  " **And I will make his life twice the hell he has made mine**."

His, the _Head..._

"Tain," Parmak supplied.

***

As before, Doctor Herin and the assigned adjudicator oversaw the surgery.  Parmak did his best to turn reluctance into attentiveness, and knowledge of his passing score into pride instead of anger.  This was difficult work, as was the procedure itself.

He followed the lines he had marked on Beyat's face, untucking skin and, to his own quiet surprise, finding softened ridges.  These were flat and devoid of their natural color, but with proper stimulation and a series of injections, they would stiffen and regain their hue in a matter of weeks.  A modified series of medication would then keep their appearance maintained, and Beyat could live the rest of her life this way, without any outward indication the opposite had ever been true.  She would take shots of a higher quality than Marritza had, Parmak would insist on that, even if he had to study the technology and mix the dosages himself.

"She will be kept for observation an additional three nights," Herin read aloud from the padd the adjudicator presented her with.  "In case of early-onset seizures."

"Seizures?" demanded Parmak, into his surgical mask, hands still working on the final tie of tubing.

"Only a thirty-one percent chance," amended Herin.

Grayish fluid bubbled into the last digit of Beyat's left orbital ridge, and as the whole thing sprang upward, Parmak carefully closed the point of contact and removed the tube, stemming it between two of his gloved fingers to interrupt the flow.  It was finished.

"We will see, won't we?" the adjudicator said, putting away his padd.

"We will," Parmak muttered to himself, increasing the provision of sedative, content to see Beyat's eyes close more firmly.

There was a Cardassian on the table in front of him, one he recognized with an aching sense of familiarity, and a _disgusted_ sense of control.  He felt more as if he had created her than merely corrected her, and the slow, deliberate tempo at which the adjudicator nodded did not make Parmak feel any better.

Beyat remained unconscious for the rest of the night, and for the following day - the first of her observation period - suffering only one instance of convulsions, which Herin deemed non-threatening, as they lasted less than a minute.  Despite this, Parmak remained at her bedside, checking her vitals obsessively, touching her hand even though she did not seem to notice.

On the dawn of the second day, he finally found enough time and peace to open the message he had received from Marritza.  He was longing for closure, but in such a vulnerable state that he tore himself open again.


	12. Chapter 12

_Some files I felt would be to your particular interest_ , Marritza’s note began.  Parmak nodded, captivated by every word:  
  
_Even if that Garak fellow was not a friend of yours before, I daresay he could arrange your transport to Bajor without any trouble.  I have seen his name come up in several other connections of mine, and he seems well equipped for a task of that variety. You can reach him via the Promenade directory - he takes commissions for his shop, but I am sure he would not be opposed to a personal communique from someone in similar tides._

That was it.  Parmak read it three times in a row without pausing, his well-trained eyes flicking from the final word and immediately back up to the first one.  Then, before he could count this as obsessive and hopeless, he scrolled onward to the files. Attached, he found the directory, with Garak’s information bolded for his convenience.  He opened this, and in his fervor, began to draft a communique. The words did not make sense together yet, but he felt compelled to type them, to carry on the feelings Marritza had inspired in him.  Jumbled across the page, he wrote: friend, you have written me once before, perhaps there is no way for you to remember, but I mean to ask a favor, and I hope you are well, that we may meet soon face to face, and--  
  
When he had typed to the lowest possible line the screen allowed, it forced him to scroll further downward, where he was presented with biographical information, buried beneath the headline of the shop, for ‘those seeking other services.’  
  
There was also an image.   
  
Parmak saw the crown of his hair, the gentle slope of his chufa, the exceptional polish of his orbital ridges, and then his eyes.   
  
He gasped and pulled his arm up to his mouth, gagging against his sleeve and letting the padd clatter to the floor.  On the bed beside him, Beyat snapped into consciousness, head spinning and gaze fighting through her sedatives.   
  
“No, no,” Parmak tried to speak quietly, but thought of no other words. “No.”  
  
He shoved her down when she tried to get up, and then promptly fell to his own seat again, feeling precarious, but having nowhere else to go, no strength to steady himself.    
Words were not occurring easily to Beyat, either, but she did have the conviction to sit forward.    
  
“Wrong?” she asked.   
  
He coughed again, and swallowed hard, and drew his sleeve away when he felt it was no longer a necessary precaution.  This took some time and several false starts, but eventually he nodded at her, and managed to say ‘yes’ instead of ‘no.’  
  
“Yes, terribly,” he said.  “Please rest.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You need to rest.  Please. Sleep, please, now.”

Disbelievingly, she glared back at him, and remained firmly where she was.   
  
"I'm going **to help** ," she tried to speak gently, because he looked so upset, but the voice that came out of her was harsh and unpracticed.   
  
"You cannot keep speaking Bajoran," he snapped at her, his mind eager for distraction. "Sleep."  
  
She slid backward to recline against the bed-frame, but kept her eyes open and attentive.  He avoided them, waving his hand to dismiss her, and took up his padd again, holding it between his gaze and hers.  Elim Garak's eyes were not any less unnerving for him to look at, digitally brightened and unblinking as they were, but he was going to face the same problem as his patient, and in the same way; he was going to refuse to feel bad for himself, for now, and for as long as he was able.   
  
It would break him eventually, but he was determined to postpone those effects for another day, when he did not have someone vulnerable in front of him, who relied on him to be professional and steady, and full of answers even when he did not have them.    
"I did not mean to wake you," he said, to the padd screen.  "Please, Beya. You have another day to rest before any testing.  Please. I'm sorry."  
  
She longed to argue this point, too, but it was certainly better for Parmak's health if she stayed quiet.  Even though he was not looking at her, remaining transfixed on his device screen, she flattened her head to the pillow and closed her eyes and steadied her breathing.  Maybe she could provide an example for him, if nothing else.   
  
They were both thinking the same way.   
  
He stood as soon as he felt steady, and adjusted her sedative solution.  The padd was left on his chair, with the screen still on, and the cursor blinking up at him, calling his attention to the unfinished message.  At least he had found the strength to break away from the picture, from the perpetual stare Garak caught him in. But the rest of his recovery would take much longer, and he could not bear to leave the room until Beyat's observation period was complete.    
  
There was so much to think about, and an equal amount that he wanted to avoid for the rest of his life.  Foremost, there was Garak, who was certainly not a friend, no matter what Marritza's lovingly-crafted message made him out to be.  If that was true, that Garak was on the station - of course it was, Parmak thought, shaking his head at himself in disappointment - he would never find passage to Bajor.  He would never truly understand why he was shipped off to Batal, why his employment was so suddenly terminated, why this man had ruined his life.   
  
Had he, though?  
  
Of course he had.  Parmak's thoughts remained conflicted, and he gave Marritza's margin notes another look.   
  
Parmak had spent the preceding months in the relative darkness, feeling sorry for Garak's situation, reading it as only slightly better than his own in all physicality - at least Garak had shelter and regulated airflow and a consistent food supply - but then again, the sentence appeared to be permanent.  Marritza had even used the term 'exile,' which left little room for misinterpretation. He had always been careful, in that regard, to be accurate and relevant, which Parmak relied on now more than ever.   
  
He leaned on Marritza's words like a crutch, first on one side, and then the other; Garak's sentence was not any better, and he had clearly done something to upset his employer.   
  
"Maybe..." Parmak began to rationalize at a whisper, lowering the padd and finding satisfaction in Beyat's vitals.  She was sleeping again, and receiving nutrients, and she needed these things from him, now more than ever.   
  
It occurred to him, in that somberly uneasy moment, that the Order was more than capable of making mistakes.   
  
"Maybe--" he said again.  
  
\--they make more mistakes than positive steps forward, he thought.   
  
Parmak finally managed to slow his breathing, and while his nausea did not subside completely, it made a subtle shift from anxiousness to overwhelming empathy, as Parmak dug deeper and deeper into this line of self-questioning.   
  
"Maybe," he mumbled to himself, "they found him to be wrong about me."  
  
For the first time since he had been hauled out of that room, his head mummified in canvas, his hair carelessly hacked off of his head, his vision more reddened and blurred with tears than it had ever been, he felt truly good about himself.  And, at the same time, like a victim, someone innocent and wrongfully accused. He had always been that way, but he had never felt it until now, afterward, after the sentence had been fully carried out.   
  
That was the point of Cardassian justice.  His sentence would not have been modified or lessened, if his accuser was found in error.  It was so simple, now that he really looked at it. This agent, Garak, had made a mistake, and had to serve a sentence suitable for the shame of his own crime.    
  
His fingers trembled when he picked up the padd again, scrolling downward from his message - he had deleted more than half of it, in his initial spell of terror - so that he could see the image.    
  
Maybe...  
  
No, there was still something cold in those eyes.  Something self-preserving, something that was well-rehearsed for the full range of atrocities it witnessed, something Parmak automatically distrusted on every possible level.    
  
He set his hand down softly on Beyat's shoulder, arranging and rearranging in his head the words he planned to say to her, when she was allowed to get up.  If he had done his tasks correctly, the adjudicator would be taking her back into the Order for further assignments; she would begin to see herself as she was born, and connect all of the missing memories from then to the point she volunteered herself for this undercover task.  Parmak wondered if there was anything more dangerous than being a volunteer; it accelerated one's favor at an incredible speed. If she did her tasks correctly, she would ingratiate herself to the Order all over again, but he was not convinced she would ever serve it. It put both of them in such profound danger, with the hands of their greatest enemy already resting around their throats, waiting to strangle them when a poor choice was made, or a good choice was made too slowly, or... or a mistake...  
  
"We all," he took in a gasp, and went on sobbing, "we all make mistakes."  
  
He did not move again for anything.  His joints ached and creaked when he finally stood over Beyat to adjust her medications and rouse her back into consciousness.  While she recovered, he spent the entirety of those two days in solitude and silence, accusing himself of everything from victimhood to criminal responsibility for Garak's suffering.  When Beyat opened her eyes and focused them on him, he saw some of the same traits inside: self-preservation, an immunity to destruction, a sense of dishonesty.   
  
But this time, he saw all of it in a sympathetic light.  Oh, he had no doubt that Beyat had been involved with the Order from a much younger age, that she was capable of brilliance and coldness in equal measure.  There was also no doubt that she had made a mistake somewhere along the way, and his efforts had been intended to correct it, but he was not sure they had, in the end.   
  
"It happens to all of us," he said to her.  Then, more apologetically, he asked her, "How are you feeling, dear friend?"  
  
There was another thing he was sure of, and one he was determined to keep hidden from her; his two days of introspection taught him that.  
  
He hated what he had done to her.  Whether she consented to the surgery or not, he hated it.  Whether she would begin to dismantle the cruel monstrosity of the Order from the inside or whether she began to believe in their causes again, he hated it.  He hated it, because he was not sure.   
  
"Bajoran," she said, laughing quietly.  "That is how I feel. But there is no pain at all, if this is what you mean.  Can I see?"  
  
"Careful," he advised her, offering his padd camera to her for use as a mirror.   
  
She touched her ridges reverently, and swallowed as harshly as he had done when he was presented with Garak's eyes, out of nowhere.    
  
"It will take some time to get accustomed to again," he assured her.   
  
Still laughing intermittently, and nervously, Beyat traced the upper shell of her ear, where she expected to find an earring, but instead found a cold and unusually sensitive patch of scaling.  She drew her hand away as if she had burned herself, even though the shock was felt on her ear, not her finger.   
  
"Microscaling," Parmak explained, fond of the sight despite the horrid fact he had caused it.    
  
"Fine.  Where did that **bastard** put my earring?"  
  
"You can't--" he began, unsure of her behavior.   
  
"I know, I can't.  But I want to keep it anyway.  Do you--"  
  
Parmak fetched it for her from his preparation kit, buried between skin dyes, disinfectants and solvents, and hooks of surgical steel like the one he had forced through his own ear.   
  
"Thank you," she held out both hands for it, while Parmak draped it gently over itself, setting the chain down in a little circle with the bejeweled cuff at the top of it.   
  
***  
  
On the final evening of the recovery period, Parmak took Beyat outside to enjoy the benefits of waning, indirect sunshine.  He had considered returning to the bakery, but was unsure what circumstances would warrant him being welcome; he resolved to speak to the owner privately, some other time.  For now, he and Beyat sat outside near the windowbox of rotting citrus peels, and he thought it was all appropriate in a way he could not define. They drank cold tea brewed directly in water ration packets, and shared Parmak's allotted sleeve of reconstituted vegetables.  Despite having gone two days without moving to feed himself, Parmak picked at his portion indifferently, always struggling to eat when he was under stress. There was much to discuss, but they approached it awkwardly, reluctantly, and did better without speaking at all.   
  
At one point, Doctor Herin arrived to interrupt them, or, more accurately, to stare at them expectantly until Parmak practically begged her to interrupt them.   
  
"Your adjudicator will not be returning," she said.  "The official term is 'indisposed.'"  
  
"I'm sure," said Parmak.   
  
"There are instructions here for you to complete in his stead."  
  
"I'm sure," Parmak said again, more bitterly.  He was playing a slightly sickening and not-at-all-amusing game with himself, in guessing just how corrupt the Order had become, how many unfortunate mistakes it could try to disguise in the aftershocks of the Occupation.  The list had to be thousands and thousands of items long.   
  
Herin stared forward again, mouth caught barely open, waiting for her intentional inactivity to be acknowledged.  This time, Parmak became fed up more quickly. Irritated, he drilled his fork into the packet of spiraled vegetables and left it there.   
  
"What?" he asked, crossing his arms.   
  
"I... am not to discuss it with you in these conditions.  If you'll just come inside to see--"  
  
"As if she is not even a person anymore," Parmak grumbled, indicating Beyat, who was sitting right beside him and matching Herin's gaze.  
  
The point was true enough, although Herin intended to save Beyat embarrassment by restricting this treatment to a private discussion between herself and Parmak.  But she could tell Parmak was not in a mood to do much discussing, anyway; she had never seen him looking quite so vacant.   
  
"Very well," Herin said, clearing her throat and surrendering.  "You have a high-priority delivery to make to one Graiv Ramet, at the Center of--"  
  
"--of wherever the Obsidian Order is based, yes.  Thank you, Doctor. Were you actually about to tell me?"  
  
She shook her head and responded curtly.   
  
"I was not given an address.  The Center for Prisoner Processing is where your delivery must go, first, and then you will return to duty here, as promptly as possible."  
  
"And when am I supposed to arrive there?" Parmak asked, voice purposely monotone.    
  
"Tonight.  Your progress will be monitored, and your arrival time will be calculated when you leave, then strictly enforced."  
  
Beyat looked over at him, not quite apologetically, but with some determination Parmak could not even begin to guess the source of.    
  
"We should go.  You and your delivery, I mean," she said, nudging his arm.    
  
"Very good," Herin said, and she left them.   
  
Parmak collected their haphazard meal and directed Beyat to finish it while they walked.  He was going to focus on their discussion, while walking on what was almost an instinctual track toward the city center, where the local prisoner processing facility would be based.  His father had not ever worked at this particular location, and had retired during the war anyway; this connection was not the one troubling Parmak. Perhaps her handler, the adjudicator, had made a mistake, and his ward had to be disposed of in an efficient and equal fashion, to mask it.   
  
"They should not be taking you in as a prisoner," Parmak reasoned, but was still mumbling, and Beyat had to ask him to repeat himself.  He apologized and then did so.   
  
"I am not remembering anything with much of... of specific," Beyat tried to express herself.  "But it does not feel like that would be correct - for the Order to want me on their doorstep.  I am not worrying."  
  
"You're not?" Parmak verified, voice still at odds with his intention.  "Sorry, I'm sorry, you--?"  
  
"I am not.  I think they will be in desperate need of help from anyone who can give it now, and they will want to hear all about my mission.  I will not be able to answer, but I hope they will pity me and give me a task to help instead."  
  
"You... genuinely wish to help them?"  
  
"Heavens, no.  I want them to understand all the crimes they committed, and I want them paid for."  
  
Parmak could not resist laughing, in a sick and self-righteous way, while Beyat looked at him, puzzled.  They paused for a moment, but Beyat recalled the precise time they were expected to arrive, and went on trudging forward over the uneven sidewalk.  
  
He rubbed his hands together - they were still twitching, after the intensively detailed surgery they had conducted - and stuffed them beneath each opposing arm for warmth.  The streetlights glared at him and he glared back, and he was thankful the video screen was blank at this late hour, or he would have had another set of eyes to worry about instead.  As they walked, the bright lights blurred together into starry little shapes, and Parmak lost track of his self-guided navigation entirely. He was aware of Beyat reaching for him, touching his elbow as his hand was tucked away, and leading him along.  If she truly were Bajoran, she would not know the way to any city center without training, as convoluted and complex as Cardassian grid streets were, but it did not help him to place her current objectives.

"When did you plan out all of this?" Parmak asked, following her.

"I dreamed it up," she laughed back, in a friendlier way.  "Anyone from the Order facing a sentence sounds like a dream to me."   
  
"You and I were not dreaming at Batal," Parmak corrected her, and thought about Garak, and which side his punishment counted toward.   
  
She could tell he was still troubled, obsessing over something, but the details were not forthcoming, neither through his expressions nor his speech.  He remained impenetrable solely because he was so agitated, making it impossible for her to deduce the problem. Of course, she was woken up by his reaction, but something could have happened sooner; she was on that bed for days.   
  
"What's wrong?" she asked, sliding her hand upward to cup his shoulder, careful not to surprise him with too much weight.  "Have I done something to trouble you?"   
  
"No, I have," Parmak muttered, and gestured with his arms still crossed, vaguely indicating her face and chest.  "I've done this to you, and it troubles me for reasons I cannot articulate."   
  
"I... wanted it done.  Not at first, but I am seeing a usefulness now, and I would not have let anyone else do the surgery to me," she assured.  Her reformed ridges lined her entire body, and there was no one she trusted more than Parmak.   
  
She maintained there was something else to have triggered this behavior, but it was not her role to push him into discussing problems she could not fix.  That would be no help to either of them. So she went on in her own reassuring way, rubbing his shoulder.   
  
"I don't feel anything for them," she said quietly.  "I... cannot place any memories yet at all; I may never.  I suffered for Bajor, as a Bajoran, and if they could not interfere to spare me, I have no allegiance to them, not to anyone but Bajor... and to you."   
  
Parmak remained quiet and largely inconsolable for the rest of the walk, weaving through the serpentine streets until they reached the capital building, where the government offices were divided into Order and Command designations, spread out between several levels and intricate courtyards.  They stood outside, in awe of the entry door.   
  
"They expect us to walk right in," Beyat sarcastically observed, as she approached the door.   
  
At that moment, it opened, although she could not tell which side had caused the action; the door swished open, retreating directly into the center wall, and Ramet stood on the other side of it.   
  
"Thank you, Kelas," Ramet said, as soon as he noticed Parmak standing to the side, "I would never have guessed you were capable of such exceptional work."   
  
"What am I supposed to say to that," Parmak replied, unimpressed, only spiraling further into his fears as Ramet gestured for them to come in.   
  
"Unfortunately, I haven't much time to chat," Ramet said.     
  
He took a small tracking device and aligned it with a point at Beyat's temple, causing it to emit a clicking sound.     
  
"Precisely on time.  Exceptional, Ijona. That's the kind of commitment we need around here.  Welcome."   
  
As he took his readings from Beyat's interneural wire, Ramet waved his other hand dismissively behind his back, for Parmak to respond to.   
  
"I do not expect you will receive further instructions," Ramet said, "but I never forget a favor, so it would serve you well to leave our channel open."   
  
"Would it," Parmak groaned this exclusively to himself.   
  
"Kelas," Beyat pleaded with him quietly, over her shoulder.  "Goodbye, dear friend."   
  
"I... don't want to go through this again," he failed to soothe himself.     
  
Rather than compromise whatever mission Beyat was creating in fantasy, Parmak turned and departed, with the door slamming quickly after he passed through it.  He worried about a great many things, but most of all, he worried that his actions were about to place his friend into a great amount of danger. All over again, constantly, more dangerous than before.  

***

Beyat, meanwhile, felt uneasy, but remained determined to carry out her mission exactly as she designed it, within the safe confines of her medicated dreamscape.  She was taken into the unmistakable and endlessly silver corridors of Prisoner Processing, blindingly bright and disorienting, and approached by all manner of nurses, probes, and record-keepers while Ramet oversaw her as if she were a priceless racing hound on a short tether.  His scanner was kept near her head most of the time, sorting through archived data; it presented her pain tolerance over the preceding years, and would be addressed in her interviews, so each spike could be matched to potential memories. They were willing to work backward with her, because it was so rare to be successfully reunited with an undercover operative at all.  Many of them had been sent to Bajor, to infiltrate their temples and their provisional courtrooms, to command their militias and their classrooms. Approximately one in ten returned with their memory intact, while the majority died in the line of their duty. Beyat was a strange and intriguing exception; according to every record the whole of the Cardassian system had ever gathered, none of their deep cover agents had been discovered during service.  And neither had Beyat, but her return left a unique chance freely exploitable, if she could be sent out with some sympathy, and could connect her past memories to new data as she went on sniffing it out. Ramet had made it to his position in the Order based on this skill of his: exploiting connections, and Beyat's allegiance appealed to him even further, because he had been unable to uncover her status while serving at Batal. The roads he navigated were complex, and often one-directional, but he went onward, relying on others.     
  
There were ties on Bajor that needed to be severed, and others that needed to be preserved, and he could not think of anyone better to do it than Beyat, as long as she seemed willing.  Of course, he watched her with some caution, and once her rudimentary tests were complete, her biological samples were sent away to be matched with data, and after only a few hours, she was brought into a comfortably furnished bedroom, and presented with her results.     
  
Ramet patiently explained the contents of the room to her as often as she asked.  The bed, dresser, and computer terminal were provided as standards, but some personal items were delivered one at a time from the collection agency, and Beyat was encouraged to look through them carefully.  There were school forms from her early childhood, records of her birth and parentage, and several essays she had written on the Central Command's 'Intolerably Poor Handling of the Bajoran Cause' which had caught the Order's attention in the first place.  Such concise and biting accounts rarely emerged from public school settings, and they arrived to snatch Beyat up as a top candidate for a State Intelligence institute.   
  
Beyat read through the accounts now, and felt disgust at her former self, but she could not show this.  She stuffed it down silently and promised herself satisfaction later, like leesa. The next feeling to arrive was one of longing and remorse, as she studied the familial records more closely.  Her parents loved her dearly, by the look of things, and refused to sponsor her admittance to an academy where graduation was often equated to a death sentence. She followed the trail of her surname and found she had been moved legally into the care of an estranged aunt, who happily accepted the stipend that came with the successful placement of her child.  When Beyat really focused, she could recall this woman vaguely - several meals in her messy dining room and trips to the library for required reading on child-rearing. She could not recall her parents in any meaningful clarity; they were faint wisps of warmth and color, like paint dribbling and expanding into water, and she could not catch hold of them. Memories of her supposed career were similar, and she stole faint glances of prominent figures and secret meetings, never enough to express.   
  
But this world was clearly her home, and her training must have been precise and severe.  If anything, she leaned away again feeling thankful, understanding that if all her memories had faded, at least the unfortunate hostage of her happy childhood had martyred itself alongside her blind support of the Occupation.  There were many things she wanted to make right.   
  
At the end of it all, she was permitted to watch a recording of herself, made before she left for her original transformative surgery.  She declined, holding up her hand, while Ramet looked at her proudly.   
  
"I have seen enough," she said.  "I have no doubts."   
  
"Neither have I," he said.  "What I do have is a number of high-profile assignments concerning Bajoran intelligence."   
  
Beyat nodded, and did not hesitate to disclose the fact she could still fluently speak the language.   
  
"But why did you not keep my appearance?" she added, curious.   
  
"Would you have agreed to any of this, if I had?"   
  
Ignoring the fact Ramet had taken sole ownership of her plight - something she would later force repayment for - Beyat flipped through the pages of one of her essays, and understood him.   
  
***   
  
Somehow, Beyat navigated her way to the monastery without much trouble, as if she had visited it a dozen times before, in her childhood.  She articulated precisely where she was going to the driver of the hired skimmer-shuttle, not by street markers but by physical surroundings, and she was taken to the place precisely.  It was not the exact address of the temple - that would have been much simpler to secure a trip to - but instead an oasis at its outskirts.   
  
They had arranged to meet there, at the point the brook broke into a waterfall, sloping gently over the rocky hills.  Interspersed between the rocks, there were vines and flowers, fighting upward for the sunshine, thriving in the dense moisture the underground spring provided.  The scene was peaceful, and Beyat continued feeling as if she was home, even though she had never visited this place. In fact, all she knew of it was based on attack drills the Order had seized from Central Command, and thankfully put an end to, intending to send operatives inside more covertly.  Her current visit did not exactly count, beyond whatever facts Beyat would smudge on her Objective Summary report.   
  
She volunteered for this mission, summoning all of her courage and stepping directly into the Head Operative's office the moment he finished a meeting, so she could specifically request the assignment.  The man was not familiar to her - he was much kinder and altogether slighter than the man she remembered meeting before her surgeries - but equally at home and imposing, as long as he was behind his desk.  He did not speak much, but his eyes flicked up hungrily from the surveillance screen he was studying, when she made mention of conveniently misplaced orphans, who might do a great deal of damage to Command's reputation, as well as add further shame to the current Bajoran climate.  The Order remained objectively neutral in the withdrawal process, as far as it could benefit them, but was not known to turn down intelligence on a potential scandal fifty years in the making.   
  
"And I know where to find them," Beyat said.   
  
Now, without any intention of providing their exact location, she sat down on one of the poolside stones, picking idly at one of the flowers that grew out of it, waiting for one of the children in question to meet her.   
  
Nadyn arrived precisely on time, with baby Kelas neatly wrapped in a thin, gauzy garment, and tucked safely away in her arms.  She looked much more vibrant than Beyat remembered her; her hair had become thicker and brighter, and she wore long, burgundy robes, which Beyat knew were associated with the clergy.   
  
"... **Vedek**?" she asked, when Nadyn approached her, unsure if she should stand up in greeting. " **Vedek Jina, is it**?"   
  
Nadyn laughed and shuffled Kelas from one arm to the other, setting his chin carefully atop the beaded plate of her shoulder.   
  
" **No** ," she said, " **I am here for guidance.  And it would seem, so are you**?"   
  
" **I couldn't say**."   
  
Of course, Beyat had written ahead to disclose her identity - the last thing she wanted to do was shock another Bajoran during her visit, especially one she counted as a friend, almost a family member.  She explained it as 'purely physical,' but Nadyn did not mind, and did not let her continue worrying now, either.   
  
" **Oh, I knew several good Cardassians** ," she observed, coming to sit on the rock beside Beyat, " **and I am happy to count you among them.  But I will still count you among good Bajorans, too.** "   
  
Beyat smiled and kicked her feet out in front of her, overcome by an unusual sense of timidity.     
  
" **That is very kind of you.  May I... may I hold him**?"   
  
" **Of course you may**."   
  
Gently, she passed the baby into Beyat's waiting hands, and maintained a soft touch on her forearm for as long as she chose to hold him, as long as she wanted to.  Beyat found this both relieving and reassuring, somehow managing to calm her before convincing her she had nothing to worry about in the first place.  

His ridges were smooth, not yet fully emerged, and his skin was tannish and greyish in blotches, and what had grown of his hair fell in thick, dark curls.  He seemed healthy enough to Beyat, unbothered by the discrepancies of his skin, his eyes bright and attentive. They watched each other, but Beyat did not feel as though she reached a better understanding of him, or how he felt; she wished Parmak was here to see him.  She did not feel uncomfortable holding him, but inadequate.

  
Beyat felt a compulsion to speak, as she gave Kelas back to his mother and returned to nervously shuffling her legs.   
  
" **I feel like I... do not know a single thing about you**."   
  
" **That isn't true** ," Nadyn insisted.  " **You cared for me and protected me, you welcomed and honored my son with me, when no one else would**."   
  
" **They would have, if they had argued enough to be allowed inside** ," Beyat remarked, unsure of where she wanted the conversation to go.  " **But I do not know anything about you, or your family, or... my own, now that I am thinking of this. It feels as if I am--** "   
  
" **Here for guidance** ," Nadyn repeated, earnestly.  " **There is nothing wrong with that**."   
  
" **I'm not sure they would let me inside, anymore, for doing this**."   
  
She extended her hand for Nadyn to touch, and after being denied, sifted through her mesh-lined purse-pocket for her earring.  Touching palms was Cardassian, and touching the earlobe was Bajoran, and it all blurred together uncomfortably in her mind, leaving her feeling lost and alone atop a hazy mountain, unable to repel safely until the fog had cleared.   
  
Nadyn did eventually realize the gesture, and made a point to take Beyat's hand as she brought up her earring, bending the cuff open enough to apply it to the base of her ear; it was the best she could do.   
  
" **I have not always been granted these rights** ," she explained, " **even though the Prophets provide them freely.  I will do all I can to guide you, as I have had friends guide me in the past, when I lost hope of the Prophets listening for my voice**."   
  
Even as she thought about this, Beyat could not remember a time she had ever been inside a temple, or conducted any prayer by herself.  All the ceremonies she had performed had been in company, and she had spoken words absentmindedly, after the others. But still, it felt like an appropriate connection, and she accepted it with gratitude plain in her face.   
  
" **Please**."   
  
" **I knew a decent, respectful, hopelessly romantic Cardassian man.  And he would have married me, and I would have put him and our son and considerable danger.  I knew, at the same time, a woman in a similar position, who did all she could to keep me safe and healthy.  It was beyond her control, in the end, but she fought for me every step along the way. I confessed to her in confidence that I had become pregnant - she knew already of my involvement with the Glinn on her own partner's staff - and she held me and wept with me, as my mother should have been with me to do.  She advised me and kept my condition disguised as well as it was possible to do, until it became necessary for me to be sent off. I was a danger to all of them, everyone on the station! Every Cardassian there could look at me, and misconstrue me, and think himself free to invade the bodies of my sisters, and every Bajoran would either pity me to no avail, or think I was trying to improve my status over them.  There was nothing else to be done, and it was expected that both of us would die in childbirth, anyway**."   
  
As a result of her recent surgery, Beyat found she had a more difficult time producing tears, but she still felt the effect of this confession deeply, and rubbed the corners of her eyes.   
  
" **But both of us have been getting better and better since the moment he left my body** ," Nadyn said fondly, nuzzling Kelas close to her face, kissing his crooked orbital ridge.   
  
" **So has Bajor, since Cardassia left hers**."   
  
Nadyn shrugged but did not disagree.   
  
" **Don't talk about yourself like that.  I am saying this is complicated** ," Nadyn continued. " **My suffering and my safety were caused by Bajorans and Cardassians almost equally, until you arrived to tip back the balance**."   
  
"That is complicated," Beyat echoed, before apologizing and speaking the same thing in Bajoran.   
  
" **My advice, I guess, is that all of us, after all these years, are both.  You should not see any cause for shame in it; I don't**."   
  
She turned Kelas around to sit on her lap, allowing him to look out at the trickling water and sparse flora, instead of only at his mother.     
  
" **None of us have a single identity** ," Nadyn concluded.  " **And only the worst from either side will see a problem with that**."   
  
" **I am working for the worst of my side** ," Beyat said.  " **But I want to... change their thinking**."   
  
" **Then our visit has been worthwhile, and I am so glad to have helped**."   
  
Clearing her throat, Beyat considered this for a moment.   
  
" **I wish it was that simple,** " she admitted.   
  
" **Oh, I know, I know** ," said Nadyn, " **You cannot go home empty-handed.  Will you need to see some of the others**?"   
  
Beyat blinked, almost in disbelief.   
  
" **You are going to... just walk me inside and show me the rest of the children**?"   
  
" **That is what your message seemed to suggest** ," Nadyn only smiled at her, with a softness that tickled against Beyat's heart like a feather, " **I will happily show them to you; I know you would never harm them**."   
  
Adjusting Kelas to rest over her shoulder, then slipping his legs carefully into place between tight panels of her robes, Nadyn stood and motioned for Beyat to join her.  They trudged carefully in between stones, then crossed a bridge that was strung above the narrow river, and continued into greener soil until the monastery itself was visible.  Nadyn took them to a smaller building, attached to the monastery but offset to one side, with its own outward-facing door.   
  
" **The orphanage** ," she said.  " **It has been operating here all through the Occupation, the only one of its kind**."   
  
Beyat stepped ahead quickly, so she could pull the door open for Nadyn.  It did not seem to have a motion sensor attached to it, and it was so heavy that she needed to pry at it with both arms.  In general, the monasteries were well fortified and secure, and this one seemed to be the best of them, to Beyat's knowledge.     
  
Inside, Beyat noticed the candles before anything else.  There were dozens of them, all artificially-fueled, and stacked atop circular, wooden rafters.  They served to illuminate one side of a partition, where several workstations were arranged, with toy chests and their contents spread between them.  On the other side of the partition were the beds, with a tightly-knit mesh draped over each one, each a different color than the one before it. Nadyn explained that they operated primarily through private donations, which had become understandably scarce in the preceding years.     
  
" **We have several anonymous Cardassian benefactors** ," Nadyn said quietly.  " **I am sure you will understand why**."   
  
Beyat began to, as they wove their way through the messy room and toward the private door on the other side of it.  This opened into a shaded outdoor area, where they found another computer - this one in disrepair, replaced by the smaller ones hidden indoors - and a cooking area, and a long dining table.  Children were seated at this already, overseen by a woman in casual Bajoran clothes, who distributed their meals to them from a communal bag, reconstituting them with water one at a time. Beyat did not need to see their faces to know that many of them were Cardassian, or at least of mixed heritage.  Tawny knots of hair were greatly outnumbered by black, slick styles, and she could see a range of grey skin-tones when each child reached out to take their lunch bowl. They did not look strange to her, dressed up in tattered Bajoran clothing, saying 'thank you, Madam' in acceptable Bajoran dialects, then promptly sitting and eating the rations the Cardassians had engineered to be most nutritious for Bajorans.  There was so much dreadful irony in the scene that Beyat did not know which piece to pick away at first.   
  
Nadyn reached to touch her hand gently, and brought her to the other side of the table, where she could observe the children's faces as they ate.   
  
"Is, hmm," Nadyn began shakily, in Cardassian, "is there a name for... for need?"   
  
Beyat appreciated the effort, but it only served to remind her of how confused she was, herself.  If Nadyn was trying to address her discreetly, though, it was certainly for her benefit.   
  
"Then, on the station, difficult to learn," Nadyn offered.   
  
" **I do not have a specific name to seek** ," Beyat replied.   
  
Many of the children glanced up at her as she passed, but not in recognition.  She imagined that Cardassian fathers visited here far more often, and were met with the same hopeless anonymity.  Maybe they left credits to make themselves feel better, because they could not take their child. She understood that feeling, and wished she had kept those biscuits from the bakery, so she had something immediate to give them.   
  
" **I intend to honor you** ," Beyat quipped from a familial prophecy interpretation, one that was often used in birthday observances.   
  
Most of them did not know what to do with this gesture, and Beyat barely knew herself, so she nodded politely and nudged Nadyn's arm until she led her inside again.   
  
" **The name files are notoriously hard to open, anyway** ," Nadyn explained, in reference to the offer she tried to make outside.  " **And the children will not know their real names, I guarantee that**."   
  
" **I had not really intended to send them home.  I am here to gather information as**..." she quoted from her organization's statement, directly, "'... **inoffensively as possible.'  Even though I am gathering the most offensive information. Isn't that absurd**?"   
  
Nadyn sat at the computer terminal, so she could rock Kelas and calm him, setting him down on her knee and then bouncing him gently.   
  
" **But some of them should go home** ," Nadyn said.  " **Really, all of them should, who have homes to go to**."   
  
Surprised, Beyat pulled in the chair from the second computer terminal, so she could sit close and speak quietly.   
  
" **You do want me to include this in my report, all of it**?"   
  
" **I cannot speak for all of them, no, but surely many of them have parents who would not cast them aside.  Why, if the Occupation has ended, would their existence still be shameful**?"   
  
Beyat could not think of anything to say, one way or the other. 


End file.
